


The Next Time We Wed

by seashadows



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Hobbies, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: “Guys, I’ve looked at the marriage license,” Anathema said, “and I’ve gotten copies of our notices and everything. The names on the documents aren’t Newt’s and mine anymore. Apparently they never were. They’re yours.”When a drunken attempt to help a friend gets Crowley and Aziraphale accidentally married, their decision to fake it instead of fix it changes their relationship in a way neither of them realizes the other wants.Over the course of a few short months, two supernatural beings discover that there are plenty of things they don’t know about each other, two humans finally get married (again), and everyone learns how to be a little braver.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 132
Kudos: 274
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to asideofourown for beta-reading, and to huevotm for the wonderful art. Both can be found on Tumblr with those names. This has been an amazing adventure. 
> 
> The title is from the Fratellis song (of course) of the same name. 
> 
> This fic was written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019.

Given his current alcohol-to-mass ratio, Crowley should by all rights have been unconscious in a gutter somewhere. _Being a demon has its advantages,_ he mused[1]as he forced his eyes to focus. In front of him, Newt and Anathema went from four people to two. A blurry two, but still.

Aziraphale elbowed him sharply. “Crowley, pay attention!”

“Hm? Yeah, I am,” he replied, in what was probably a whisper. At least the happy couple in front of him didn’t notice. Although Anathema was a good six inches shorter than her almost-husband, she seemed – as always – to stand on a level plane with him. “Let’s watch,” he added. From the sound of things, they were getting to the vows. That was always the best part of a wedding, especially when the couple flubbed them.[2]

Anathema looked down at her hands and took a deep breath. “Newt,” she said, “I’m not going to be a traditional spouse, and I know that’s what you love about me. What I love about you is the way you clean up my scrying stuff without me having to ask. I love that you sound weird in the morning. I especially love how you come up behind me and blow raspberries into my neck when I’m doing the dishes.”

“Oh, God,” Newt said. He blinked a few times, rapid-fire, and wiped under his eyes with the pads of his thumb and forefinger. “Anathema,” he said, sniffling, “Jesus.”

Anathema’s smile grew, crinkling the corners of her eyes until she looked like the carefree young woman she should have spent her childhood preparing to become. “I usually don’t love when you interrupt me,” she said, “but I guess I can make an exception now. Anyway, those are the reasons I’m marrying you. My promise is this.” She pulled Newt’s hand away from his face and held both of his in hers. “I’ll always be there for you as your partner. You don’t have to hide anything from me if you don’t want to. I’ll take care of you when you need me, and I’ll hold you whenever you freak out about thunderstorms.”

Newt hiccupped and grabbed her in a hug. Crowley couldn’t help his smile, but that was okay; everyone in the room was having the same reaction. Well, everyone but the officiant. “Young man!” he said, rapping sharply on his desk. “Young man, a little decorum, please.”

For the life of him, Crowley couldn’t fathom what exactly Tadfield, in general, had been smoking when they allowed R.P. Tyler to be a part-time registry clerk. Whatever it was, he wanted some. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Tyler, but the man wasn’t cowed. Shame.

Newt let go of Anathema and wiped his face. “Right,” he said. “Um, where were we? My vows.” He took an index card out of his pocket and glanced at it. “Anathema, I love you, but I wouldn’t be marrying you if I didn’t like you too. I promise not to interrupt you when you’re writing, and I’m really glad you mentioned the thunderstorms thing, because that’s new and I didn’t want to surprise you with it.” He coughed. “Let’s get married.”

Tyler cleared his throat far more pompously than the occasion warranted. “The contracting words, if you please.”

“Whatever,” Anathema said under her breath, just loudly enough that Crowley – and probably Aziraphale – could hear it. “I call upon these persons here present, to witness that I, Anathema Isabel Inés Device, do take thee, Newton Babbage Pulsifer, to be my lawful wedded husband.”

Crowley heard a spate of high-pitched giggles behind him, as well as the word “Babbage” repeated in what sounded like Brian’s voice. He couldn’t blame the kid; the name was _ridiculous_.

Newt’s cheeks splotched an unflattering red. “I call upon these persons here present, to witness that I, Newton Babbage Pulsifer, do take thee, Anathema Isabel Inés Device, to be my lawful wedded wife. Are we done laughing?”

Adam was the first to break the ensuing silence with a whoop of “Go Newt and Anathema!”, followed by applause from everyone in the registry office. Even Dog barked from just outside the door[3]. “Wait, wait,” Tyler said over the noise, “no applause yet! They’re not quite married. You two have got to sign the license first.” He pushed a piece of paper across the desk and honest-to-Satan thrust his nose in the air. “Sign here and say the words of civil partnership, and then you may applaud all you like.”

“Okay, okay,” Anathema said. “I declare that I know not of any legal reason why we may not register as partners in law. I understand that, on signing this document, we will be forming a civil partnership with each other.” She grabbed Newt’s hand and pressed her lips against it, making them both smile, and touched the license. “Witnesses, are you ready?”

Crowley forced his vision to resolve (again) and sauntered to the desk, Aziraphale close behind him. “Absolutely,” he said. “Honored to even be asked.” The room tilted. For the first time that day, he regretted indulging so much at the happy couple’s pre-wedding pub free-for-all. Everyone had been invited except the kids, for obvious reasons, and he remembered pouring a lot of different lagers down his gullet.

“As am I,” Aziraphale said. “And might I reiterate my admiration for the exceptional quality of the invitation? Wherever did you find such a font?”

“Thanks. Um, I wrote them out,” said Newt, scratching the back of his neck. “We tried to order some and the shop’s computer crashed.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, looking faintly unnerved.

Newt looked down at his shoes. “I thought I should do it, since it was my fault anyway, so I got a calligraphy book and practiced. Turns out I’m not bad at it. That’s how you got those invitations.”

“Bloody hell,” Crowley told him, “nice job.” He remembered the invitation. It had been on black cardstock with gold writing, a bold choice, and he hadn’t seen any inkblots. “So where do we sign?”

R.P. Tyler harrumphed. “Sign where indicated,” he said, “and please do watch your language, young man. You’re acting quite the unsavory character.”[4]

Crowley was tempted to show him his snake head, but decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble of telling a whole roomful of very sensible people that they’d just had a mass hallucination. “Thanksss,” he said instead, and relished Tyler’s unnerved look at the hiss.

Newt and Anathema signed first, then Aziraphale, and finally the pen passed to Crowley. _Nice not to use the sigil_ , he reflected as he signed. Just an ordinary ‘Anthony J. Crowley,’ no finger-burning necessary.

He was just congratulating himself on not letting his hands shake too much when Anathema grabbed the license again. “Damn,” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “We signed in the wrong place. Stupid mistake! Sorry, everyone, that was my fault.”

“Ach!” Shadwell grumbled. He was _probably_ trying to be quiet, but as usual, that was an abject failure. “Now we’ve got to start over. And here’s me havin’ to visit the loo!”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, dear,” said Tracy, a bit more successful at modulating her voice but completely unsuccessful at stifling a laugh.

“Will this be taking much longer?” said Mrs. Pulsifer[5]. “I’ve got that lovely supper all ready to serve.”

Aziraphale made a little sound of disappointment next to him, and Crowley finally roused himself out of his torpor to take some action. He couldn’t stand when Aziraphale was disappointed. Call him a sap, but it was true. “I can fix it,” he said. “No need for a new license. Just give me that one and I’ll swap out the names.”

Tyler looked horrified. “This is all highly irregular, young man,” he said. “I ought to fetch a new license and have you lot fill it out. That’s _proper_ procedure, it is. In my day, when someone made a mistake, they owned up to it and started afresh –“

“I _said_ I’ll take care of it,” said Crowley, injecting as much venom into his voice as he dared. Anathema didn’t look like she was about to suffer this particular fool gladly for any longer than another few seconds without combusting like the best of demons. “You guys can clear out, all right? I’ll make it right.” He considered sliding his sunglasses down his nose and showing Tyler a hint of snake, but settled for curling his lip and showing him his sharp teeth instead.

Tyler didn’t bolt from his chair, but Crowley noted with satisfaction that it was damn close. Everyone else took the hint and started clearing out, if the scrape of chairs behind him was anything to go by. “Thank you so much,” said Anathema, putting a hand on his arm. “Seriously, you’re a lifesaver.”

“It means a lot,” Newt said. “I’ll tell Mum to save you the best slice of cake.”

Crowley shook his head. “No need. Give it to Aziraphale instead. I don’t eat much.”

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale shook his head and actually tutted, the old-fashioned bugger. That shouldn’t have been nearly as endearing as it was. “Don’t deprive yourself.”

“I’m not. Go on, angel.” The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and he cursed inwardly at Anathema’s dewy-eyed look. “Give me half a second and I’ll have this sorted. Get out of here, seriously. You deserve to celebrate.”

The three of them sensibly did as he asked, and after they were gone, Crowley stared hard at the license. “You lucky sod,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he was referring to Newt or Anathema, or to some nebulous lucky version of him in another universe who had been able to make Aziraphale fall in love with him. At any rate, he couldn’t chalk up the stupid longing in his head to the sole effects of all the drinks he’d had. “Right.”

He snapped his fingers.

* * *

Crowley never forgot to sober up. It was part of his routine after a drinking session, just like not brushing his teeth before he went to bed. It was just his luck, then, that the universe had decided to have a laugh at his expense and make him forget to do it last night.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing the heels of both hands against his forehead. He remembered stumbling into the bookshop with Aziraphale’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, and even more vaguely, conking out on the fainting couch in his back room[6]. “Someone turn off the sun.” There was an invisible hammer pounding his skull from inside, and he could practically hear it clanging against the bone.

“I can’t,” said Aziraphale as he walked through the door, “and I wouldn’t, and it serves you right.” Satan, no one had the right to be that disgustingly cheerful in the morning. Maybe he’d gotten a special dispensation for it or something. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I want to discorporate,” Crowley said. “Can I have a cup of that?”

_“Crowley!”_

That was when the phone rang, thank Someone. Aziraphale stared hard at him. “You did that on purpose.”

“Didn’t. Can you go answer that?”

Aziraphale stalked over to the phone. “Should make _you_ answer it,” he muttered, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

Crowley could faintly hear the person on the other end; they were clearly agitated. He propped himself up on an elbow as Aziraphale’s eyes grew wider and wider, his mouth pinching. “All right there, angel?” he said.

Aziraphale flapped a hand, shushing him, and turned his attention back to the call. “Anathema, my dear, I’m sure it’s nothing – there must have been a mistake –“ He paused. “Please slow down. I can’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

Crowley mimed pulling the phone away from his ear. Aziraphale did so, scowling at him all the while. With a snap of his fingers, the phone had a speaker function. “ – don’t know how it happened, either,” Anathema was saying. “Crowley must have done something. How could he have done that? He knows how much this meant to everyone!”

“Wait, what’d I do?” Crowley said. He struggled to a sitting position. “What happened? If mayhem happened, I didn’t do it on purpose. Have you asked the kids?”

“This couldn’t possibly have been the kids,” Anathema snapped. He could hear the irritation that was crossing into anger even through the phone. “They weren’t even near the license.”

“License?” Crowley repeated. His headache was draining away, but his head still felt full of jelly.

Anathema sighed. “God, you really don’t know, do you?”

Aziraphale began to wring his hands, a nervous tic he rarely exhibited. “Please tell us.”

“Guys, I’ve looked at the marriage license,” Anathema said, “and I’ve gotten copies of our notices and everything. The names on the documents aren’t Newt’s and mine anymore. Apparently they never were. They’re yours.”

* * *

“How could this have happened?”

“I don’t know!” Crowley kneaded his forehead. “Change your tune already! We’ve established I have no idea how it happened.”

Aziraphale pointed to the screen of Crowley’s phone, which was currently taken up by the scanned license that Anathema had kindly (if angrily) sent them. “Oh? Then would you please explain to me why my name is in the space where Anathema’s should be, occupation part-time rare book dealer, parents Elohim and El-Shaddai?”

Crowley jabbed his finger at the screen in rebuttal. “I should be asking why _my_ occupation’s listed as ‘itinerant’ and address ‘unknown’! I have an address!” He flopped back on the couch. It made his head hurt, but he didn’t care. “And why they’re all buying this! What the fuck did I _do_? Look, my parents are listed as ‘Unknown’ and ‘L. Morningstar’!” He’d seen plenty of marriage licenses before. All of the writing should have been cause for concern, or at least an angry call from the registry office about a supposed prank.

Aziraphale started pacing from his desk to the door again, back and forth, just like he’d been doing for the past half hour with hardly a pause. “My question exactly!” Crowley suspected his voice would have been thundering if he were a human, but as this was Aziraphale, he sounded quintessentially miffed. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” He stopped in front of the couch and stared Crowley down.[7] “Some sort of wishful thinking, was it? You wanted the attention they were getting!”

Crowley shrank back from the force of his gaze. “Attention?” he said. “You think I ruined their wedding because I wanted some fucking _attention_?” That cut him like a hot knife to the bone. “If you think I bollocksed up the license on purpose, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” That was when the idea occurred to him. “How do I know this isn’t wishful thinking from you? You have a history of projection, _angel_.” If he could have hissed the last word, he would have; as it was, he had to settle for sneering. “Weddings are sort of your lookout.”

“I would _never!_ ” Aziraphale glared at him. Crowley returned his glare, undaunted. Maybe he’d fucked up and maybe he hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to let Aziraphale go blaming him for something he hadn’t done on purpose. “Crowley. _Someone_ made a mistake, and we’ve got to fix it. Anathema and Newton deserved to have a lovely wedding, not… _this_.”

Crowley tried to find a suitable response and failed. They did deserve better than what he might have given them. He was rescued from possibly having to admit anything by a furious pounding on the door. “Customers?”

“I hope not!” said Aziraphale, and stormed out. The bell over the door jingled as he opened it, and the person outdoors stalked in. Female, probably – the boots sounded like they were made to torture women’s feet. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said, faintly but still loudly enough that Crowley heard. He sat back up and strained his ears. “No, please – Ms. Device, was it? Please believe me, I’m so terribly sorry. We both are. Won’t you come in?”

_No_ , Crowley inwardly wailed, and ran his hands through his hair to make it some semblance of presentable. Why did this always happen to him? That settled it; he was never drinking again[8].

Anathema’s mother, a smartly-dressed woman who looked much more put-together than her daughter in a way that Crowley had always tried to embody when he wore dresses, strode into the back room with Aziraphale close behind her. “You’re the one who did this?” she demanded. “You changed my Anathema’s marriage license?”

Crowley stood up and groaned. “You must be Ms. Device.”

“Camila,” she corrected, “and you’d better answer my question before I hurt you.”

He held up his hands in a gesture of placation. “Whatever happened,” he said, “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Oh, that’s what you have to say? It wasn’t on purpose? You _demon!_ ” she shouted. Right, that answered the other question of whether Anathema had filled her parents in on the details of the Armaged-didn’t situation.

Hell really did have no fury like the wrath of a parent whose child had been wronged. Crowley would have been impressed if he hadn’t been scared out of his mind. “Look, um, Camila. I swear it was an accident, but I’ll make it up to you. And Anathema and Newt, and everyone else.”

“How?” she said. “You’ve already made things worse!”

Aziraphale put an obviously hesitant, but comforting, hand on her shoulder. “ _Señora_ Device,” he began, and continued in Spanish that dated – as far as Crowley could tell – from around the sixteenth century. His flourishes and bloody Castilian lisp were ridiculous, but some of the rigidity in Ms. Device’s posture relaxed as he spoke. She even let him put an arm around her. “Isn’t that right, Crowley?” Aziraphale concluded.

“Huh?” Crowley said. Ms. Device narrowed her eyes at him. “I mean, er, sorry. My Spanish is rusty.” He’d tried to forget as much as he could after seeing the horrors of the _auto-de-fé_ , centuries and centuries ago. That coincided with his week of solid drinking, come to think of it. If he never heard the horrible word _quemadero_ again, it would be too soon. But then, that wasn’t fair to Ms. Device, who hadn’t had anything to do with that shit. “What’d you say, Aziraphale?”

“I said that you’re very sorry, it was an honest mistake, and you’ll do anything that’s necessary to make up for it,” Aziraphale said. To his credit, he only glared a little.

“What could you possibly do?” said Ms. Device. “It’ll take another month to publish the banns, the way they do things around here! You’ve sabotaged my daughter, you…you… _lambón del infierno –_ ah, I’m sorry.” She shook her head, deflating a little. “That was beneath me. I’m very angry, but you’re not – anyway, what do you propose you could do? You’d _better_ , but I want to hear it from you.”

Crowley thought fast, which he thought was impressive, given the fact that he technically still have a hangover. To be honest, if he were her, he’d probably suspect the shifty-looking demon of sabotage, too. “I can pay,” he said. “I’ll pay for everyone to stay here another month. I mean, if they can. If they have to go back to America, I’ll pay for them to fly back in. And the wedding license, and the venue, and everything. I can do that.” That was the great thing about being a demon, even if Hell wasn’t speaking to you; money was no object.

Ms. Device folded her arms, but her expression changed from pure anger to something speculative, with maybe a little interest mixed in. “Will you?” she said. “I have your word on that?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley said. “Money’s not a problem for me. You know what I am.” She narrowed her eyes at him and, almost imperceptibly, nodded. “Again, this was my fault. I’m so sorry.” Anathema had been through _enough_ because of Heaven and Hell, and bloody Agnes, too. “I’ll get your daughter married right, I promise.”

“Camila,” said Aziraphale, “might I take you out for a spot of something delicious while we talk about this? Crowley ought to have some time by himself to think about his budgetary concerns. I know an absolutely delicious little bakery not a street away. My treat, of course.”

Ms. Device nodded, her eyes still fixed on Crowley. “All right,” she said. “You and your shenanigans cut into my breakfast time. I could use something sweet.”

“Oh, so could I,” Aziraphale told her cheerfully. “Shall we? Crowley, don’t go far. Er, stay here and…think about what you’ve done. Yes, that should do it.” He led Ms. Device out, and with a jingle of the bell over the shop door, they were gone.

Crowley, for his part, lay on Aziraphale’s couch, dug his palms against his eyes, and spent an hour trying not to dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment and shame. Burning goo had nothing on him. “Ghh,” he said into the couch cushions fifteen minutes after Aziraphale left. 

“Why me?” he said three minutes later with his head draped over the back of the couch. 

“Can’t believe I’m such an idiot,” he said after another twenty-eight minutes had passed, dangling mostly _off_ the couch. This was shaping up to be his worst day in a while.

At the seventy-minute mark, he turned into a snake and slithered through the shop to roll in a little book dust, which – weirdly enough – sometimes did make him feel better when he was down. Hissing at the wanker who tried to rattle the doorknob _definitely_ lifted his spirits a little.[9] Then he went for a nap in the nearest sunbeam, only surfacing and turning back into his usual form when Aziraphale came back through the door.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, sounding far more frazzled than he should have after an hour and a half at a bakery. “Crowley, where are you? You haven’t left, have you?”

“No, I’m here,” Crowley said as he came around a bookshelf. “Satan, you look awful. What happened? Were they out of angel cake?”

Aziraphale glared at him. “No. Don’t tease. I started suggesting themes and such for the next wedding, color schemes, and I suppose…well, I suppose I went a bit overboard with the suggestions and the – er, badgering. Quite a bit overboard.” His face flushed. “Camila took out a notepad and slapped me on the head with it, and said I was very lucky that it wasn’t her shoe.”

Crowley snickered. “Don’t remember that one from Cluedo. On the head with a notepad, in the bakery?”

“Crowley!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Crowley sighed. “I feel like shit about this. Wouldn’t blame them if we didn’t get invited to the next one – me, at least. I shouldn’t’ve miracled when I was drunk.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “at least you’re apologetic about it.” He rubbed his forehead. “However did you manage to alter reality that far back?”

Crowley shrugged. “Buggered if I know. At least it was mostly confined to print things, right? You want to sit down?” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley migrated to the back room again, with Aziraphale on his heels. “I guess the question is, what do we do about the marriage?” he said when he was seated. “You want to have it annulled, probably. I don’t blame you. Right fuck-up, that is. Want me to take care of it? You know, the bits that don’t need you there?”

“I don’t think it’s voidable,” said Aziraphale. “Legally, I mean. Even if you _were_ under the influence. Non-consummation isn’t a voidable reason for same-sex couples, and given that we’re both man-shaped…”

“I could look woman-shaped.”

“No, you seem comfortable in this form.” Aziraphale rubbed his forehead, which bore a couple of red marks. “And you filled out the license in this shape, with your name. A divorce is most likely our only legal option, if that’s the route you want to take.” He looked at Crowley from under his eyelashes with an expression Crowley couldn’t decipher. “Although…I was thinking,” he added shyly, “perhaps keeping the marriage for a while, at least a few months, could be beneficial.”

Crowley almost fell off the couch. “What?” Of all the things Aziraphale could have said, he wasn’t expecting that. “Warn me before you spring that on me, angel! I could’ve discorporated!”

“Excuse me, I hardly find the idea _that_ objectionable!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Stop trying to be sarcastic for five minutes and give me a yes or no!”

“Um.” Crowley coughed and shook his fringe out of his eyes. “No, it’s…it’s…let me hear your idea.” His chest surged with sudden warmth. Aziraphale as his husband. His _husband_ , his lover, the being he woke up next to every morning. It was a stupid dream, he’d always known it was, but _what if?_ “Beneficial, huh?”

“Well, erm.” Aziraphale straightened up. “It might be convenient, mightn’t it?”

Just as suddenly as it had risen, Crowley’s mood crashed into the ground like a wingless plane. “Convenient?”

“Yes!” said Aziraphale, looking more than a little pleased with himself. “We’ll pretend to divorce, and the hullaballoo will keep people out of the shop. And before that, it’s an excellent excuse to have time away from others, too. I can put a sign on the shop door that says ‘Closed for Honeymoon’ or something similar.”

Crowley didn’t think it was possible, but his foul mood dug itself even deeper into the ground nonetheless. “Great,” he said bleakly. “That sounds…great.” Aziraphale didn’t want to be married to him. He should have known. The fucking marriage license would be nothing more than an excuse for Aziraphale to spend time holed up by himself, just like he wanted. “Yeah, that’d…you can do that.”

“So you think it’s a good idea?” said Aziraphale.

“Sure,” Crowley replied. “It’d be, er, good for tax purposes. Get Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs off my arse.” He technically didn’t have an income, which always created a giant headache when the government collectively decided that there was Something Suspicious Going On About the Whole Affair. It took far too many demonic miracles to make them forget he existed while also not voiding his lease agreement. And if Aziraphale was just going to use him to keep people away, well…

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale, with an expression on his face that Crowley couldn’t quite identify. He wasn’t usually so opaque. “Very useful, my dear fellow. You’re clever to think of it.”

But now Crowley was on a roll. One good idea always led to another. “And,” he said, “ _and,_ if there are any demons or anything after you now, you know, because of me, being married to me’ll keep them away. Protect you more than I can do by myself, or you.” 

Anytime someone in even slightly Satanic or otherwise suspicious regalia walked into the shop when he was there, ever since everything that had happened, he flinched. Keeping Aziraphale safe, now there was a better goal than anything tax-related. If he couldn’t be his husband in any real sense, then at least he could protect him from anything on his side that might want to do him harm. “And if any angels have it in for me, maybe they’ll see we’re married and…back off. Because you’re, um, a scary angel.”

Aziraphale gave a tiny, stiff nod as his shoulders relaxed, barely enough to be noticeable. But Crowley had plenty of experience in noticing Aziraphale’s more subtle gestures, and he zoomed in on the movement. “I appreciate your concern for my well-being,” Aziraphale said. “Well.” He dusted off his dust-free hands. “It seems we have a plan. What shall we tell everyone?”

“Tell them we made a mistake,” said Crowley. “Tell them _I_ made a mistake,” he amended under the force of Aziraphale’s gaze. “Teeny mistake, nothing huge. We’ve, erm, decided that we’re fond of each other and will stay married. At least for now. And we’re fixing it by throwing money at it. That should keep everyone reasonably happy.”

“Wonderful,” said Aziraphale. Crowley tried to ignore the sigh half-hidden in his voice. “Yes, that seems a very neat solution. We’ll keep our separate residences, I presume?”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “Keep everything easy.” If hearts could break, even demons’ hearts, then his was fucking cracking. “Tickety-boo.” 

He just hoped that he wasn’t lying to Aziraphale, as well as to himself.

* * *

[1] Not for the first time.

[2] Crowley had attended a memorable wedding in 1986 that involved far too much Aqua Net, a bottle of absinthe, and copious amounts of something called Snakes and Barrels. He’d come for the band name and stayed for the drunken fight between the bride and groom.

[3] He had been banned from the premises on R.P. Tyler’s orders, but even Adam had to concede that dog hair in the office was probably a bad thing. Crowley had breathed a sigh of relief about not having to reveal that it would be, in fact, Hellhound hair.

[4] R.P. Tyler couldn’t remember the details of how he had come to disapprove of Crowley. All the justification he could come up with, after hours of vigorous thought, was his terrible attitude and something about flames. Or perhaps flaming, which he also semi-disapproved of on principle.

[5] She’d insisted that he call her ‘Patricia,’ but in his own head, she seemed so much more like a ‘Mrs. Pulsifer.’

[6] He rarely enjoyed going back to his flat these days, not least because of all the ex-Ligur on the floor. Not even demonic miracles could get rid of it. He wasn’t sure if Adam’s celestial reset had brought Ligur back or not – trial or not, he got the feeling that there was _something_ there. Understandably, though, the guy wasn’t in contact with him to confirm.

[7] Crowley would have sworn his eye was twitching. That was new.

[8] He had made a similar vow close to forty years ago after a drunken suggestion led to the creation of the Biff Tannen character.

[9] Unfortunately for Crowley, his residual hangover made his demonic intentions go pear-shaped, and the would-be victim decided that very day that a pet snake would be fun. They would go on to be an excellent owner for the duration of the snake’s lifespan. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Yes_ , Crowley, I have friends,” Aziraphale snapped. 
> 
> In which Aziraphale hosts some of London’s most vicious and voracious readers, Crowley games, and they both reveal a bit more of their inner lives while waiting for the second wedding.

They were two weeks into the required month of waiting, and Crowley was going absolutely _spare_. From his seat near the shelves, he watched Aziraphale move chairs into the main section of his bookshop with eyes that he hoped didn’t look too unhappy. “What’s up, angel? You don’t usually have the shop open this late.” The whole place tended to be shut and shuttered by six in the evening. Anyone who banged on the door got a shirty shout of “We’re closed!”, not this outright welcoming candlelight. Aziraphale actually had scented candles out; they smelled good when Crowley flicked his tongue, sweet like baked goods. “Expecting someone important?”

“No one you know,” said Aziraphale, exiting the back room with his coat tree. “It’s a small gathering of a few friends.”

“You have friends?”

“ _Yes,_ Crowley, I have friends,” Aziraphale snapped. Crowley turned his head to hide the surprise and hurt that were undoubtedly written all over his face. He couldn’t really blame Aziraphale for being short with him since he fucked up the license, but he _hated_ how clingy he’d become in response. Must have been the snake in him, seeking the warmth of Aziraphale’s personality. _Pathetic_. 

“There is a great deal you don’t know about my life, or my free time. Perhaps if you weren’t so keen on swanning off for a nap every few decades, or finding dangerous hobbies of your own…” Aziraphale continued.

 _Ouch,_ Crowley thought. That one really was painful. “They’re not all dangerous,” he said, curling up tighter in the chair. “If you want me to stay out of your way, just say so. You don’t need to insult me, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale paused in the middle of setting down a tray of Battenberg cake. “I do apologize,” he said. “You’re right – that was unnecessary. As for my get-together, I don’t think you’d enjoy it. It largely involves book discussion.”

“Wait,” said Crowley, “you have a _book club_?” The very phrase made him smile, despite his mood. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t _have_ it,” Aziraphale protested. “I simply like to host it the majority of the time. I meant to rent a room in a tea shop this month, but with the wedding details, it just slipped my mind.” He produced a dish of deviled eggs. “Really, I think you’d have a terrible time.”

Crowley shrugged. “Legitimate fear,” he said. “I’ll hang out in the back room. Thanks for the warning, angel.”

“That might be best,” said Aziraphale. “I doubt the fiber-crafts element would interest you, either.”

Crowley paused mid-stride, his jaw dropping. “It’s not just a book club,” he said. “You’re telling me that you have a _stitch-and-bitch_.”

“There’s no need for that kind of language, Crowley!” Someone rapped on the door and Aziraphale deflated from his puffed-up position, flustered. “I – we can talk about this later, but my guests are here.”

“Fair enough.” Crowley started back towards the bookshelves. “Have a good time tonight. Don’t read too many dirty books, or you’ll get a visit from the fun police.”

“They don’t exist,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley had already turned into a snake and slithered into the quiet, dusty darkness of the bookshelves. Otherwise, he would have come up with an extremely cool retort, even if Aziraphale thought it was just snippy.

The bell above the door jingled, and the accompanying voices blended into a melodic murmur, as people started to fill the bookshop. Mostly women, no surprise there. Crowley had met very few men who would willingly go to a…well, to whatever this was[1], and it seemed like they were all here. “Denise, hello,” said Aziraphale, “hello, Angela, ooh, Asha, you made it back! I do apologize for that argument last time.”

Crowley found an empty spot on one of the shelves near the back of the shop and curled up there. It was a dusty nook between two sets of third-edition Chaucers, which he doubted Aziraphale cared enough about to mind if he got his demonic snake essence all over them. The wood was cool, and he could feel his eyelids drooping as the group settled into a hum of chewing and animated book discussion, despite not having them in snake form.[2] The smell of fresh hot tea drifted over to him and he flicked his tongue out to smell it better. Aziraphale did make a good pot of tea, much as Crowley was loath to tell him.

He was just about asleep when a woman’s voice rose above the others. “ – use your bathroom, Aziraphale? Bloody UTI’s got me back and forth all day long.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale said. Crowley didn’t hear the snap, but he could feel the crackle of angelic magic move over his skin as a door popped into existence next to his shelf. “You remember where it is, don’t you? Just down that space to the left of the shelves. You should see a door with a gold handle.” Crowley peeked, and suppressed a snaky chuckle when he saw that the handle was shaped like a stylized set of wings. Typical Aziraphale. “Shall we hold the discussion until you return?”

“No, I’ve only read it a thousand times,” the woman said, and approached the shelves at a fast clip, judging by her increase in volume. “Keep going. Ta anyway.”

She went in and out quickly, at which point Aziraphale and his companions resumed their discussion of _Wuthering Heights_ (the general consensus was that Emily Bronte was a genius, and that anyone who encountered men like Heathcliff, Hindley Earnshaw, the father who started all the trouble, or any one of the bollocksed-up descendants needed to run away as fast as their legs could carry them). To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale wasn’t the dominant voice, despite his love for literature. Nor did he say anything judgmental when someone cursed at a dropped stitch. These were _friends_ , Crowley realized, just like his own. And speaking of that, he needed to schedule another gaming night, because –

The bathroom door slammed by his ear again, and he winced, hissing in annoyance. This was the fourth time in an hour that Miss UTI had disturbed his train of thought when she should have just stayed home with her infection. Either she left, or he did, and it had started getting windy right as he came in, so he wasn’t about to go out in that. Wind would ruin his hair.

Crowley partially uncoiled himself and stuck his head out, curling it around the edge of the shelf and resting it against the wood as he waited. It wasn’t long; the woman came back out of the bathroom a few minutes later. Crowley unwound a little farther and let out a soft hiss. He doubted he’d need to do much more to get noticed in the dark space. His eyes, unlike those of most snakes, had a reflective membrane.

As it turned out, he was right on the nose. Five seconds after the woman closed the door and looked around to get her bearings again, her eyes locked with his. The scream she let out, much to Crowley’s satisfaction, could have leveled the walls of Jericho.

The talk in the front abruptly turned to shocked silence, followed by the expected pandemonium. Crowley let his snakey mouth curl into a smirk, much more difficult than when he was human-shaped, but totally worth it. “What is it?” Aziraphale called out, a note of worry rising in his voice. Crowley heard him rise from his chair. “Clara, what’s going on? Are you hurt?”

“There’s a – a – a fucking snake!” Clara screamed in the most impressively high voice Crowley had ever had. “Bloody – over there! Right over there!” She pointed to the shelf with a shaking finger. “You’ve got a snake? A fucking _snake_?”

“I’ve got a phobia,” said one of the old men. “I’ll have to leave if you can’t take him somewhere, Aziraphale, I really will.”

Crowley got down from the shelf and slithered away as fast as his wiggling body could carry him. Nope, nope, this was _not_ in the plan. He wasn’t about to be responsible for some old fart having a heart attack.

“I’m so terribly sorry, everyone,” said Aziraphale, marching back a ways into the shelves. His voice was mild, but Crowley could hear the anger in his tread. “Crawly! Oh, bad snake! _Bad_ snake! Don’t frighten my friends, you bad boy!”

 _Low blow,_ Crowley thought, and slithered back a little farther. Aziraphale hadn’t called him Crawly, even accidentally, in over a thousand years. _Ouch_. 

“You have a snake?” someone said. “I didn’t know you had a snake.”

“Now, really,” said the old man, “it’s a legitimate phobia, and I –“

“He won’t come back in here, Henry,” Aziraphale interrupted. “He’s not mine. He belongs to – er…he belongs to my…my husband.”

A chorus of gasps and questions erupted from Aziraphale’s friends, equally shocked and delighted. “Husband?” a woman said. “Oh, Aziraphale, we didn’t know you had a _husband!_ ”

“Well, it’s new,” said Aziraphale. “Only, ah, signed the papers a fortnight ago –“

“Two _weeks_?” someone cried.

“You bad boy,” said Clara, “you never told us a thing!”

“How long have you been together?”

“Bloody hell, we missed the wedding!”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ –“

“I can’t believe you –“

“But I thought –“

“Stop, stop!” Aziraphale shouted. Curled as he was on the bottom step of the staircase leading to Aziraphale’s flat, Crowley couldn’t see him, but he could imagine Aziraphale throwing his soft hands into the air. “I’ve known him a long time,” he said after the group fell silent, “but this was rather a – a surprise wedding. There was… there was alcohol involved.”

A few people murmured sympathetically. “Ooh, I’ve been there,” a woman said. “But you still let the banns stay up, didn’t you? He must be a wonderful man. Very lucky to snag you!”

The second part was absolutely right, but not – Crowley thought guiltily – the first. There was nothing wonderful about him. “Er, mm,” Aziraphale sputtered, clearing his throat. “It isn’t quite…I’m a private person, you know.”

“Seems like it! Can we meet him?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Phobia, “it’s the _least_ you could do after that scare. Show us!”

“Show us!” the group repeated, and soon the shop was full of synchronized shouting so loud that Crowley could practically hear the capital letters. “SHOW – US! SHOW – US! SHOW – US!”

“All right!” said Aziraphale, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Anthony! _Anthony,_ dear, will you _come downstairs_ and say hello to my friends?”

Crowley could figure out the hints well enough. He transformed and banged his foot on the bottom step a few times to simulate footsteps, then called “What is it, angel?” as he walked towards the front of the shop. If Aziraphale wanted him to play the husband on command, he could indulge him for a few minutes, but he was fucking doing it _his_ way. “What’s up?” He emerged into the candlelit area and perched his arse on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair. “You need something?”

“Crawly got out, my dear b – my _dear_ ,” Aziraphale said. “He scared my friends. You do have him under control now, don’t you?” He fixed Crowley with a frightening stare. “Maybe you should apologize as well.”

“Piss on that!” said Clara, who looked to be in her early thirties and had curly black hair halfway down her back. “We’re all just gagging to meet the mysterious husband. Anthony, right?”

“Yeah, hi. Anthony Crowley, Aziraphale’s antisocial husband,” said Crowley, bringing Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles (to a satisfying chorus of sighs). “You can call me Crowley.” He spotted a tray of well-peppered deviled eggs and snagged one. A little sulfur would do him good. “You lot got names?”

The entire group, which numbered about fifteen, went around and introduced themselves. Crowley didn’t think he’d remember half of them in an hour, but it was the thought that counted. “Nice to meet all of you,” he said. “What’s the book of the month? Let me guess.” He took a bite of deviled egg. “E.M. Forster? Fancy food and latent homosexuality?”

“No, no,” said an elderly woman with a lapful of crochet, giggling. “ _Wuthering Heights,_ clever clogs. Have you ever read it?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not much of a one for reading,” he said, which was only half a lie, “but I’ve read that one.” Emily Bronte was one of the more twisted geniuses of her generation, in his opinion. “Which of the men have we decided we hate the most? Personally, I go with the father, if you accept the subtext about Heathcliff’s parentage.”

Several people nodded approval, and Henry came over to slap Crowley’s back with a gnarled hand. “That’s just what most of us think about his parentage,” he said. “Disgraceful for a father to keep his family in the dark like that. Aziraphale, my boy, you’ve chosen well. Excellent taste in his literature, has your husband.”

“Thanks, mate,” said Crowley, giving him his cheekiest, most insouciant grin. Aziraphale huffed, which he determinedly ignored. “Like I said, I don’t read much.” It was kind of funny to hear Aziraphale, probably at least _seventy_ times this old codger’s age, referred to as a boy. “You guys need me to stick around, or do you want to get back to your, uh…what do you call all this?” He waved his hand. “Haven’t figured out what to call it yet.” 

“We just call it the club,” said a woman – no, a lady – who looked to be close to a hundred. Probably wasn’t; she’d just drawn the short straw in the game of aging like fine wine versus aging like shitty vinegar. “Or the gathering, or the get-together. Your Aziraphale’s been hosting at least three times a year for…goodness, how long now? A decade?”

“Close to it,” someone said. “What do you like to do, Crowley?”

Crowley leaned his weight on the back of the chair. “I’ve got plants,” he said. “I like gaming. And I’ve got a _sssnake_.” He let just a little of his demonic nature leak into the hiss as he leaned towards Henry. He deserved it for complaining so much, legitimate phobia or not.

“Did you name your snake after yourself?” said a woman in a head wrap. “Crawly, right? Or was it Crowley?”

“Sort of.” Why not roll with it? “What can I say? I’m a little egotistical. I do stupid things.” He glared a singular dagger at the side of Aziraphale’s head. Served him right for treating him like a husband only when it was convenient for him. “Crawly’s almost part of me. I’m never getting rid of him.”

The chorus of _awww_ s around him made him smile. “No one expects you to,” the woman said. “Now, if it’s all right with you – where were we?”

The book discussion continued for a while, and Crowley ate two more deviled eggs, as well as about half a plate of almond _burfi_ that someone brought. It wasn’t half bad, either. “You know,” he said during a lull in the discussion, “I think I’ve got a plate of sweets somewhere.”

Aziraphale turned in his seat and blinked at him. “You have?”

“Sure.” Crowley widened his eyes. “Just let me _go upstairs_ and get it. Be right back, angel.” He slid off the chair and walked backwards. From the prickling at the back of his neck, there were probably…oh, at least five pairs of eyes following his arse. Excellent.

He clomped up the stairs, stopped at the landing before the door, and indulged himself by making a racket as he pretended to search for treats. “Now where did I put them?” he said, _sotto voce_. “I had them right here!” He could almost _hear_ the steam coming out of Aziraphale’s ears.

A minute or two of indulgence later, Crowley miracled up a plate piled high with cinnamon biscuits and went back down to the shop. “Found these,” he said. “Careful, they’ll just about burn your tongue off if you’re not careful. Cinnamon and cayenne pepper.”

The biscuits were received with happy noises and a lot of grabby hands, some of which were not-so-subtly directed at Crowley and his jacket. After explaining that the sunglasses were for an eye condition (only half a lie), he figured he’d had about enough social time for one night. “It’s been real,” he said, and loaded up a plate with devil’s food cake – really, what was it with the demon-themed foods tonight? – and enough Battenberg to sink a ship. When he was hungry, he was really hungry. “Bye, guys. Have a fun rest of the night. And remember, Linton’s a shit, too.”

He was not, in fact, a shit, but Crowley still relished the argument that started behind him as he sauntered back into the shelves, clopped his feet on the stairs a few times, and miracled himself back to his own flat. A demon had to have some fun.

* * *

Three weeks after the mix-up with the license, Aziraphale suddenly realized that he had never noticed the little things that Crowley did for him – at least not before Crowley brought them into a societal institution that required such gestures.

Crowley _gave_ him things, both tangible and intangible. He did it unprompted, and they were always things Aziraphale liked.

“Hey, someone down the street from my flat carked it and their kid’s doing an estate sale. I found a bunch of first-edition O. Henrys, dirt-cheap. Thought you’d like them.” And Aziraphale did.

“Don’t touch the radio dial, angel, the car’s playing Queen again. Think I can switch it over to a song that’s a little less drum-heavy?” He had, and Aziraphale was grateful for the break.

“Here, angel, this is called a Cronut. I don’t have a bloody clue what it’s supposed to taste like, but you’ll probably think it’s tasty.” Aziraphale tried it, and found that he did.

Crowley made it _so_ difficult, sometimes, to stay angry with him. And these days, Aziraphale had begun to wonder if he really should be. He’d made his share of idiotic mistakes when he was drunk, the most notable being a fateful decision to introduce a certain John Wesley to the wonders of religion. Granted, none of them had such extreme effects on his own life as what Crowley did, but perhaps he was overdue a bit of tit for tat.

Even if Crowley had crashed his lovely get-together[3] and made everyone love him. Even if he occasionally snored when he slept at Aziraphale’s flat. Even if – and oh, this one hurt to think about – he was using their so-called marriage as an excuse to treat Aziraphale like hired angelic muscle. Protect him from _demons._ Be a _scary angel_ , of all the ridiculous things. Crowley had clearly come up with that one on the spot, and Aziraphale had to assume it was because he was still hungover.

But he wasn’t hungover now, and he wasn’t treating Aziraphale like hired muscle. Aziraphale would know if he had – at least, he thought so.

He knocked on Crowley’s door, a newspaper under his arm. This was in fact the second time he’d come to Crowley’s flat in the space of a week, an unprecedented event; the first time had been the day after his little gathering, and he’d found Crowley passed out on the sofa with his computer open. “Crowley? Are you here, my dear boy?”

The door remained closed, although there was noise coming from behind it. Crowley was listening to music, then, or possibly terrorizing his plants. Aziraphale had seen the contents of his screen during his last visit, and it turned out that Crowley had a plant blog, or at least some approximation of a plant blog mixed with rants about someone he termed only _A._ He’d read an entry or two before pulling away, a warm feeling in his chest warring with the shame of snooping.

“Crowley?” He knocked again. “Someone sent ‘round a newspaper that I don’t subscribe to. Do you take the _Sun?_ ” It did seem rather up Crowley’s alley. “Crowley, are you in? I can leave.”

There was more noise from behind the door – were those voices? Maybe he had the television on. Aziraphale was just getting ready to leave when the door swung around to reveal a young man dressed in a shocking costume. He looked like some unholy union of a street pickpocket, circa the early seventeenth century, and one of the dragon cosplayers he’d seen outside the shop after the Hobbit films were released. “Hi,” said the stranger. “Do I know you?”

It took a great deal of effort, but Aziraphale managed to reel in his jaw. “Erm,” he said, “I…I can come back later.” He couldn’t help the slash of hurt that opened in his heart. Of course, he and Crowley had never agreed to be exclusive, but he would have appreciated a notice that Crowley had a – _what_ was the parlance these days? A boyfriend.

“You can come in now,” said the man. “You here for the campaign? We’ve already started.”

 _Campaign?_ “Ah, is Crowley in?”

“Oh!” His face lit up with understanding, and he half-turned to yell over his shoulder. “OI, KETHRA – I MEAN ANTHONY – SOMEONE HERE FOR YOU!”

Aziraphale tried not to wince at the volume. “Kethra?”

“Never know if he’s still in character mode. Hey, just your luck, he’s coming out now. Friend of yours, Anthony?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” said Crowley, whose costume was somehow even _more_ outlandish. He’d painted his forehead and the line of his jaw with what looked like purple scales, and he had on a flowing red robe that might have been anywhere from five to seven hundred years old. The tips of his ears were pointed, and Aziraphale didn’t think a miracle had been involved. “What’re you doing here, Aziraphale?” His tone was curious, and the knot in Aziraphale’s belly loosened a bit. “Is something wrong?”

Aziraphale held out the newspaper, feeling more than a bit foolish. “I found this outside the shop. Would you like it?”

“The _Sun?_ Brilliant.” Crowley grinned and snatched the paper. “I roll these up and shake ‘em at pigeons when they shit on my windowsill. You want to come in?”

“Aren’t you busy?” said Aziraphale. “Er, I mean, _are_ you busy? It seems you’ve got…friends over.” The laughter coming from the interior of the flat hinted that this was perhaps a more raucous group than his circle. “And who’s Kethra?”

Crowley smiled. “It’s my D&D character. I’ve got the group over.”

“D and…D? Sorry, I don’t…”

“Dungeons and Dragons,” said Crowley. “It’s this fantasy thing – actually, hold that thought. I don’t think you’d like it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s really complicated, got loads of magic and all that. Storylines can get kind of weird, too. If you don’t want to stay, I won’t be offended or anything.”

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Aziraphale repeated. The term _was_ ringing a bell; he thought he remembered hearing it from someone in the shop. He tended to attract people on the nerdier side, if he remembered the term correctly. “What makes you think I wouldn’t like odd storylines? I _have_ read Jonathan Swift, you know.”

Crowley had just opened his mouth, possibly to protest, when someone shouted from in back. “Anthony, you die up there or what? It’s your turn!”

“Keep your hat on, _Brent_ ,” Crowley said, a wide grin on his face. “Got a friend at the door. Don’t piss Kethra off or I’ll smite you with divine intervention.”

“You can’t use divine intervention to smite, knobhead!”

“Yeah, well, _I_ can!” Crowley bellowed, showing the empty corridor two fingers. “Sorry, angel, I gotta get back there. I’ve kept them waiting too long. I need an answer – are you in or out?”

Aziraphale took another moment to make his decision. “In,” he said. “I promise I won’t disturb your, er…what did you call it, a campaign?” Crowley nodded. “I’ll keep quiet, then.”

“Much appreciated. You mind if I ask a favor, though?”

“Anything,” Aziraphale said, and immediately wondered if he should take it back. Crowley’s definition of ‘anything’ tended to operate on a sliding scale. “Er…”

“It’s nothing like that,” Crowley said quickly. “Satan, no, I’m not about to ask for the moon. Just wanted to know if you could miracle up some food. Everyone brings something to eat when we’re playing. Oh – hey, Omar made a bunch of those almond cookies with confectioner’s sugar. You like those, right?”

Aziraphale licked his lips. “I do like those,” he admitted. “Would everyone prefer sweet or savory?”

“We’re good on sweets. Try savory.”

“All right,” Aziraphale said, and concentrated. A savory meat-and-cheese platter appeared on his outstretched hand, far better than the sort you could get at the shops. For one thing, they usually didn’t have goat brie and gourmet charcuterie on those cheap things. “Will this do?”

“Capital,” said Crowley, probably ironically. Aziraphale could never tell with him. “C’mon, I’ll take you back. Show you the sights, introduce you to the people. Fair warning, they’re weird.”

Aziraphale was about to ask what exactly Crowley meant by ‘weird’ when he entered the living room and his question answered itself. Crowley’s minimalist furniture had been pushed to the side and the center space filled with a long wooden table, surrounded by chairs upholstered in opulent red. Save for one, all the chairs were filled with an assortment of people, most dressed as _loudly_ as Crowley and his friend who answered the door. Said friend waved, and Aziraphale waved back. 

“Hey,” said a woman dressed in leather armor, complete with enormous brass buckles and what looked like an axe strapped onto her back. She also wore a not-terribly-convincing fake beard, which went surprisingly well with her costume. “Who’ve you got here, Anthony? He gonna join the campaign or what?”

“He’s not dressed for it,” said someone dressed like an elf. At least they’d taken some extra time to put realistic tips on their ears. Aziraphale had seen far too many terrible Legolas costumes within the past two decades. Some of their wearers had even had the audacity to come into his shop.[4] “Wait, is he a beginner?”

“Guys,” said Crowley, putting a hand lightly on Aziraphale’s back, “this is Aziraphale. He’s…” He stuttered a few times, wordlessly, and fell momentarily silent, then cleared his throat. “He’s a really… I mean…” He glanced at him, and Aziraphale was surprised at the beseeching look in his eyes. “He’s…”

“I’m his husband,” said Aziraphale. “We’re married. It’s rather new, so –“

Suddenly there were people around them, clapping both him and Crowley on the back and offering congratulations. “Bloody finally!” someone said. “Anthony, this must be the angel you’re always talking about. It _is_ , isn’t it? God, we finally meet him, and you’re _married?_ ”

 _The angel you’re always talking about._ What in the world…? “He talks about me?” Aziraphale said.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” said the woman in the dwarf costume, rolling her eyes at Crowley, who was frantically shaking his head and waving his arms like he wanted to signal a ship. “Every single time, pretty much. Always going on about angel this and angel that, my angel would think this food is terrible, my angel read that book one time, wish my angel’d get into D&D –“

“Bleeding hell, Hannah, would you shut up already?” Crowley said. “This isn’t story hour, okay?”

“Yeah,” said the man who opened the door, “yeah it is, you closed-mouthed bastard. It’s time for the story of the redheaded sad sack who’ll shell out for amazing contact lenses, but he won’t tell this angel guy he’s in love with him ‘til he shows up _married_.”

Crowley looked like he would rather be anywhere but here. “Guys…”

“Wait, contact lenses?” Aziraphale said. “And what's Dungeons and Dragons again? No one's explained it to me.” 'Fantasy thing' wouldn't really cut it. That bespectacled young person had mentioned it in his shop about twenty years ago, but he’d never heard a definition.

“Dungeons and Dragons!” said Hannah. “It’s this fantastic RPG – role-playing game, sorry – well, I guess it’s frustrating _and_ fantastic. I can’t believe you’ve never played! You look like the kind of person who’d love it.”

“Shouldn’t it be Dungeons and Demons?” said Aziraphale without thinking, and tensed up when Crowley winced. Oh, _bugger_ , what had he just done?

But instead of a roomful of horrified people all scrambling to get out the door, he was met with a chorus of laughter. “Anthony, you’ve got a keeper!” someone shouted.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, and put his hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back. Warmth flowed from where he touched, up Aziraphale’s spine and down his legs until he felt like he might be glowing. “Would the lot of you clap your yaps? You were going on about how it’s my turn. Let me fucking roll already.”

“Clap our _what?_ ”

“Clap your yaps,” Crowley repeated. “Shut your – oh, for fuck’s sake, never mind.” He strode to the table and sat down at the head of it, reaching forward to grab a pair of brightly-colored objects. They were _dice_ , Aziraphale realized, many-sided dice. How clever! “Where were we?”

“Your roll,” said the person in the elf costume as everyone sat back down. “Oi, you, um…what was it, Aziraphale? Yeah, can you set down that platter over there with the rest of the food? It looks awesome.”

Hannah took out a notepad and pulled a pen, crafted to look like a quill, from behind her ear. “So we’re all camping out on the plain and Anthony – sorry, _Kethra,_ right, character mode, Kethra is on watch.”

“Sounds right,” said Crowley.

“Right. You hear a noise coming from the east, the direction we just fled from. The rest of the party are asleep. Kethra stands up, takes her Staff of Smiteology – dear God, can we please change that name? It’s ridiculous.”

Crowley shook his head. “Nope. Staff of Smiteology stays the way it is. I worked on that name for a long time.” The sad thing was that Aziraphale could believe it.

Hannah rolled her eyes. “She picks up the Staff of Smiteology and – roll the d20 for a perception check to see what happens. Under seven, she charges forward with the staff to try for a smite. Seven to fourteen, she stands her ground. Fifteen and up, she casts the Protecty Spell of Protection for all mental or magical rolls, duration of everyone’s next turn.”

Crowley picked up the die packed with so many sides that it looked nearly circular and began to roll it in his hands. “Come on,” he said, and shook his clasped hands over his head, then to each side like he was shaking a _lulav_. Aziraphale hid a smile behind his hand. “Come on, come on, nat 20, nat 20, Crowley needs a new pair of shoes!”

“This’ll take a minute,” the man in the thief costume stage-whispered, winking at Aziraphale. “I’m gonna try your platter.” He got up and piled a paper plate high with meat and cheese, shoving a runny piece of brie into his mouth with a tiny fork and moaning happily as he came back. “Nice!” he said, and stopped to slap Aziraphale on the back. Perhaps that was the standard mode of communication here, or maybe the man was just enthusiastic, but either way, Aziraphale felt himself glowing with pleasure.

After a few more moments of posturing, Crowley let the die drop onto the table in a perfect arc. “Sixteen,” he said, and grinned. “Protecty Spell of Protection it is.”

The name was so silly that Aziraphale could have laughed. He looked at Crowley instead, watched the little lines at the corners of his eyes that grew deeper when he smiled. And – _contact lenses_ , his friend had said. He wasn’t telling them the truth, but he also wasn’t wearing his glasses. He was comfortable. He was _soft._

When it didn’t refer to him, Aziraphale didn’t mind soft.

“Okay,” Crowley said, cutting into Aziraphale’s train of thought, “I’m calling privileges on this roll, Hannah. I’ve got that IOU to be DM for a turn and I’m claiming it now.”

Hannah made a rude gesture at him, and the man in the thief costume moaned. “Come on, Anthony, I call shenanigans!”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “ _I_ didn’t invent DM for a Roll, Sean. You want to blame someone, take it up with Omar.” He pointed to Elf Costume.

“You –“

“It’s my turn,” said Crowley, “because I let you have my nat 20 last month, _remember?_ And you said that you’d do anything.” He looked around the table with a wicked grin. “Remember? I claimed a roll’s worth of DM and now I’m calling it in.”

“He’s right,” said Hannah. “Anthony, start the stupid turn already. Sean, shut up and take your lumps like everyone else.”

Crowley held his hand out, and Hannah gave him the notepad. “Now that we’re back on track,” he said, “let’s see…Harmonium the Bard takes a brave stand against the marauding band of orcs, being high on bravery and low on a number of key brain features. Roll for agility. Above ten, it’s a positive.”

Sean rolled with much less ceremony than Crowley had, and groaned when he saw the results. “Jesus fuck!”

“Your brave bard rolls a one,” said Crowley with visible glee, “and is attacked by a flying kitten to the crotch. Oh, no, it’s going for the danglers! So much for singing baritone.”

The unlucky creator of the equally unlucky bard thunked his head on the table while the rest of the party howled with laughter. “You can’t _do_ that,” he complained.

“Last time you had the privilege,” Omar said, “I seem to recall you shook your arse at the rest of us and told us to ‘booyah’ while consigning Jen’s warrior to a tea party with three small children.” He grinned at Aziraphale. “Seriously. You sure you want to get involved with all this, angel husband?”

“Genital Attack 931,” said Crowley. “It’s a thing now. Take the handicap, Sean.” He looked at Aziraphale and held out his hand. Aziraphale only hesitated a second before taking it. “Really, angel, are you sure you want to stay?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, and now he didn’t have to hesitate. “I am.”

* * *

Despite his distaste for the things on principle, Aziraphale held his nose and bought Crowley one of those dreadful e-readers two days later. “I found some fantasy books you might like,” he said, a bit pleased at Crowley’s surprised expression upon opening the box. “They’re loaded on there. I don’t know a thing about the game, I’m afraid, but they do have dungeons. And dragons.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale basked in his slow smile.

* * *

[1] For right now, he was going with “semi-holy crafters’ get-together/probably sappy book club/coffee klatch.” But that was still in R&D.

[2] An imagination was an amazing thing.

[3] Asha had already rung twice and asked if she could have the pair of them over for tea, and Aziraphale was running out of excuses.

[4] Not that he was terribly happy with the films, either; Legolas had dark hair, and yes, that was a hill he was willing to die on. Metaphorically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "redheaded sad sack" line is a reference to [this](http://www.subzin.com/quotes/S7080302c7/The+Office/Classy+Christmas/Yes%2C+the+case+of+the+horrible+red-headed+sad+sack.) quote from The Office. 
> 
> I've literally been waiting over three years to bust [this](https://wikdsushi.tumblr.com/post/150822381496/kitten-to-the-crotch-sounds-like-some-kind-of) one out. I came up with it, but my wife's the one who put it on Tumblr. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe the cock-up was good for something,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “Not that I don’t still regret it, but…they look happy, right?” 
> 
> “Don’t push your luck,” Aziraphale muttered back. He rather liked that phrase. “Just keep applauding. They deserve that much.”
> 
> Newt and Anathema finally get the do-over they deserve, and Aziraphale and Crowley realize that they need to coordinate their words as well as their actions.

The wedding, or rather the do-over, took place on an almost miraculously beautiful[1] June morning in Tadfield’s biggest public park. _I realized that what I love most about Tadfield is the atmosphere,_ Anathema had written in her informal version of an email invitation. _So no registry office this time. We’re getting married in the big public park at 10 AM on the Summer Solstice. We hope to see you all there._

In Crowley and Aziraphale’s invitation, she had added this: _If either of you shows up drunk, I’m never speaking to either of you again. I’m having friends sign the license this time._ Crowley had made a show of sulking over that, but Aziraphale could tell he wasn’t actually offended. A little hurt, perhaps, but the mix-up _had_ been his fault. He’d subsided with good grace after a few minutes, and although he’d said nothing of the sort, Aziraphale was proud of him for that.

The air smelled of flowers and wet earth from a short rainstorm two nights before, and Aziraphale happily inhaled it as he snapped his suspenders. He and Crowley were both kitted out in their best, but next to Crowley’s black-and-red suit, patterned in swirls and fleurs-de-lis of velvety brocade, he felt drab. The flowers tucked in their buttonholes, which Newt handed them when they arrived, were deep red roses that went startlingly well with both their outfits. “Crowley?” he said.

Crowley turned his head. “Hm?”

“I think I like this locale rather more than the previous one,” Aziraphale confessed. A registry office was all well and good, if you really objected to getting it done in a more public place, but the summer glow of the park suited the happy couple far more than ancient wallpaper and a generous helping of R.P. Tyler.

Crowley smiled. “Yeah, so do I,” he said. “Not every day you get to have a do-over on your wedding. It looks like they’re both enjoying it, anyway.” He gestured to the happy couple, who did indeed look like they were having fun, if the intensity of their pre-vow-recitation kissing was anything to go by.

Their clothes were better this time, too. Anathema had decked herself out in a midnight-blue dress in full Victorian style, complete with multiple layers of skirts, ruffled cuffs, a laced bodice, and a bow at her throat. Newt looked presentable enough, or at least more presentable than he had at the first ceremony, in a suit that matched[2]. The ornamental curls that Anathema had left out of her hairstyle fell around her face as she drew Newt in for another kiss, then straightened up. 

“Thank you, everyone, for making it to the _second_ Device-Pulsifer wedding ceremony,” she said. A chorus of giggles followed her announcement, and even Aziraphale was helpless to keep from joining in. “And a special thank you goes to Deirdre Young for agreeing to perform the ceremony. We were very glad to know we could do something other than _just_ filling forms out in the registry office again. Although,” and here she shot a pointed glance in Crowley’s direction, “this time we’ve already done it. Correctly.”

Mrs. Young beamed. “It was my pleasure.”

“We’ll try to keep the ceremony as quick as possible, for those of you who already sat through the first one,” said Newt. “Before we begin, Anathema’s friend Dani would like to recite a poem by one of Anathema’s favorite poets, William Carlos Williams.”

Dani, who had short, spiked hair and looked every bit as witchy as Anathema did (with the addition of quite a lot of silver jewelry that suited her very well), stood up in her seat and laced her hands behind her back. “The wedding screw-up gave me a lot of time to choose a poem,” she said, “so thank you for that.” More giggles. “This one is called Summer Song, and it was written in 1917.”

Aziraphale had promised that he wouldn’t cry, and he really did try not to, but he couldn’t hold back the tears that insisted on flowing down his cheeks by the time Dani finished the final line. _If I should / buy a shirt / your color and / put on a necktie / sky-blue / where would they carry me?_ If only he and Crowley could have had a ceremony like this, and could smile at each other like Anathema and Newt – he would put on a necktie in whatever color Crowley liked best, and kiss him with the taste of a June morning on his lips.

He looked around to distract himself, only to see Camila Device looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Aziraphale shrugged and inclined his head towards the happy couple; who _wouldn’t_ cry, seeing them? Jorge, Anathema’s father, was more than a bit teary-eyed as well. _Sorry,_ Aziraphale mouthed, and Camila rewarded him with a small smile. His help with planning the menu had probably gone a fair way towards forgiveness. Crowley’s hellish money had helped, too.

The ceremony went just about the same, although the vows were a bit different and Newt didn’t cry this time. That was a good thing, because just about everyone else was, with the exception of the children. When the couple exchanged their final words and Deirdre Young pronounced them married under the auspices of Tadfield’s best weather, everyone burst into applause that sounded nearly as relieved as it was congratulatory. 

“Maybe the cock-up was good for something,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “Not that I don’t still regret it, but…they look happy, right?” 

“Don’t push your luck,” Aziraphale muttered back. He rather liked that phrase. “Just keep applauding. They deserve that much.”

Crowley did as he was told. To his credit, he did seem sincere, and Aziraphale flattered himself that he had enough experience to tell when Crowley was lying. When he’d clapped long enough that his hands were sore, he followed the rest of the wedding guests to cluster around Anathema and Newt. The newlyweds exchanged copious congratulations and thanks with about ten people before it was Aziraphale’s turn. 

“Anathema, my dear,” he said, taking both of her hands, “I’m undoubtedly not the first to congratulate you on your true nuptials, but please accept my congratulations anyway. The ceremony was very sweet, and you both look beautiful.”

Anathema’s flushed face brightened, and Newt went bright pink at the compliment. “Thank you so much,” Anathema said, and squeezed his hands. “I know things have been…difficult, but you’ve been really helpful. Even Crowley – where _is_ Crowley?”

“I’d guess he’s too ashamed to speak to you,” Aziraphale said. “He still feels terrible, I think. He’ll likely find you later.” Crowley was probably skulking among the nearby trees, avoiding people until he’d worked up the wherewithal to be social again, but they didn’t need to know that. “We both hope that your guests weren’t too inconvenienced.”

“Some of my friends _were_ a little pissed off,” Anathema admitted, “but they appreciated the free trip back here.”

“I do hope that I didn’t anger anyone’s bosses.” Especially if they were anything like Gabriel, who never tolerated tardiness, despite the nebulous nature of time in Heaven and the inherent flexibility of check-in times. He’d even chastised Uriel for it in front of everyone once, and _she’d_ been late because she was performing a miracle on a sick baby. “Did they have their vacation time cut?”

Anathema shook her head. “Most of them don’t really have traditional jobs, anyway,” she said. “They’re like me. I mean, Dani runs a combo wellness shop and psychic business.” She waved at her friend, who waved back, looking perplexed. “And her job’s the _most_ structured. Hey, I hate to cut you off, but…”

Aziraphale smiled and held up a conciliatory hand. “Think nothing of it,” he said. “Your family and friends have every right to want time with you. I’ll just be over by the food, then, shall I?” He stepped around another of Anathema’s friends and went over to the food tables, where Mrs. Pulsifer no doubt needed help setting up. 

She welcomed his help, as it turned out, which gave him an opportunity to survey the food. There were a good number of covered cake stands as well as savory foods of all kinds. Anathema had told him that he was welcome to bring a dish himself, and he had obliged with the largest dish of apple kugel that the nearby deli could make. He licked his lips as his mouth began to water; all the smells were combining to create a delicious miasma. 

“Shall I re-stack the plates?” he asked Mrs. Pulsifer, who wore a hat almost as elaborate as her flowered sundress. “Just to make things a bit easier? I think people are beginning to filter over here.”

She smiled and took the foil cover off a tray of roasted potatoes and carrots. “You’re welcome to make yourself a plate if you’d like, Mr. Fell,” she said. “I was married to a man, and I’ve raised one besides. I’m no stranger to a man’s appetite.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!” he exclaimed. What would everyone think if they saw him being so greedy? That was conduct unbecoming anyone, never mind an angel. “And please, Mrs. Pulsifer, my name is Aziraphale. I won’t be a bit offended if you call me by it.”

“I’ve told _you_ that my name is Patricia,” she rejoined, still smiling as her hands worked to uncover pan after pan. “Our generation are so uptight, aren’t we? Polite to a fault, stiff upper lip and all that. I blame our parents.”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise. If only she knew. “Politeness has its place, but I’ll try to remember,” he said. “Thank you for letting me help.”

“Think nothing of it – ooh, here comes the crowd!” Mrs. Pulsifer clapped her hands. “If you’re going to be polite about that, you’d better stand back. Young people have such an appetite. I like to see them eat their fill.”

He couldn’t disagree with that. “Of course,” he said, and let part of the swarm descend before he inserted himself seamlessly into the queue.

There were just as many cakes as Aziraphale originally thought, and to his delight, one of them was made of about twenty crepes stacked on top of each other and sandwiched together with frosting. They were in all the colors of the rainbow, and looked _most_ appetizing when sliced. The piece he took of that one made up about half of his first plate, and he settled happily at one of the standing tables to eat. He still had no idea where Crowley was; still, it was unlikely he’d run off. Crowley was kinder than all that.

Someone sidled up next to him with a plate that he could see, even in his peripheral vision, was as overloaded as his own. “It’s a fine spread,” said Sergeant Shadwell. “Did you bring any of it?”

“Hello, Sergeant,” said Aziraphale, lifting a fried shrimp in greeting. “Only the kugel.”

“Eh?”

“The…the apple casserole,” Aziraphale explained, remembering belatedly that Shadwell was rather less worldly than he was when it came to food. He thought he remembered Madame Tracy saying something about how his favorite food was sweetened condensed milk. _Urgh,_ he thought, and shuddered. “I do hope you’re enjoying yourself, Sergeant Shadwell. It was a lovely ceremony, don’t you think?”

Shadwell bobbed his head in brusque acknowledgment and put his plate down. “So it is,” he said, sounding reluctant. “They’re dressed…outlandishly. Even young Pulsifer. No surprise to me, that lady of his is a witch.”

“Occultist,” Aziraphale corrected. Around Shadwell, it was an important distinction to make. “I think their outfits are just wonderful.”

“Not sayin’ they’re no’ interesting,” said Shadwell. “I’m only tellin’ it as I see it. So, the two of you are married now?”

“Who?” It took Aziraphale a minute to remember the reason they were here. “Oh, Crowley and me. Yes, we’re married.” His stomach clenched. “Due to a mix-up, but, er…yes, we’re married.”

Shadwell nodded sagely and took a bite of his own crepe cake, of which he had a piece almost as large as Aziraphale’s. “So,” he said halfway through a swallow, “that means there are _two_ southern pansies now, does it?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he ought to laugh or blush, so he settled on neither. “Well, I wouldn’t say…I don’t think that being married to me makes Crowley a…that thing. He’s just Crowley.”

“True,” came a voice from Aziraphale’s left, sudden enough that he jumped. “Good to see you again, Witchfinder Sergeant.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, trying to smooth down the ruffled feathers he was sure Shadwell and Crowley could both hear in his voice, “yes, my _husband_ has the right of it. It’s been, ah, too long. Yes, too long, I would say.”

“What’s that you were saying about pansies, Sergeant?” Crowley said as he put his elbows on the table. “Great flowers, pansies. Unless you were talking about my husband again? I’m sure you weren’t. He doesn’t like being called that, unless you’re comparing him to a flower.” He grinned and showed the very tips of his sharp canine teeth. Aziraphale was used to it, but he could tell by the way the color fled Shadwell’s face that the sergeant wasn’t.

Shadwell cleared his throat and stuffed a miniature meatball in his mouth. “Didn’t mean any harm,” he said. “No shame in you two bein’ together.[3]” He chewed a few more times and cocked his head contemplatively. “So, how’d the two o’ you meet?”

Aziraphale froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Crowley had done the same. “Here and there,” he said, hating how strained his voice sounded. Despite having been at the airbase when everything went down, Shadwell (or so Aziraphale suspected) was not someone who could be trusted with the truth.

“Here and there?” Shadwell’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound too reputable. Now, I know Mr. Crowley’s father had a bit of an odd background, but surely you’d’ve gotten out o’ that by now.”

Bugger. Bugger, damn, _fuck._ How had they not taken the time to coordinate their stories? Most couples had some sort of first-meeting story that they could pull out, save those who had been blackout drunk when they met. Unfortunately, he and Crowley didn’t have that excuse for their first encounter on the garden wall. “Erm, nothing so suspicious as that,” he said, and gave Crowley his best _help-me-I’m-drowning_ eyes. “It’s a long story.”

“We met when we were really young,” Crowley said, much to Aziraphale’s relief. “Um, adults, but still young. There were these two people – they were a couple, right – and Aziraphale gave them his flaming…his _knife,_ so they wouldn’t be alone on the streets. Really dangerous. At night.” Crowley drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s when I fell for him. Because it was a really important knife, and, er, giving it away could’ve gotten him in big trouble with his boss.”

“A knife?” Shadwell echoed. “What sorta work was he _doin’_?”

“Important stuff. Um, knifey stuff. It was really, really old,” Crowley elaborated. “Old as…old as anything. And he just gave it away to keep people safe.”

To Aziraphale’s belief, Shadwell’s suspicious look morphed into a sage nod. “You like old things,” he said. “I ought’ve known, with the shop, aye.” He bit into a cake pop. Aziraphale remembered the display of colorful pops at the cake table and resolved to sample as many flavors as he could. “Good of you to give away an old knife. Did those people make it oot?”

“You have no idea how well,” Crowley said.

“Well, of course. I don’ know them.”

Aziraphale suppressed a sigh. “Of course not, my dear fellow.” Crowley twitched next to him. “Oh, look, it’s Madame Tracy!” He got the feeling that she liked it when he used her self-made title, so in the interest of friendship, he’d kept it up. “Hello, my dear! Have you been enjoying yourself – Crowley, what…?” Crowley was making one of the universal beckoning gestures at him with some urgency. “It seems that Crowley and I need some husband time. Is that all right with you?”

Madame Tracy laughed. “I’d like a bit of husband time myself,” she said. “Go, go.”

“No, it’s okay,” Crowley said. “It – it can wait. Um, how are things going with the two of you?”

“Wonderfully, thank you for asking,” said Madame Tracy.

“So,” Shadwell said as he began to work his way through another cake pop, “have the two o’ you moved together, or are ye plannin’ to live in sin?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I, ah…I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“It’s not sin if they’re already married, sweetheart,” said Madame Tracy, covering a laugh with her hand as she patted Shadwell’s shoulder. “But he makes a good point – _have_ you moved in together? Oh, you should! He has the sweetest little flat above his shop that would be perfect for two.”

Aziraphale looked sidelong at Crowley and felt his cheeks color. How had she been able to see into his deepest fantasies? The thought of Crowley moving in sprang to his mind for the thousandth time since this wedding mix-up happened, and the two-thousandth time since he’d first acquired the shop. “We…we haven’t,” he said. “We’ve not made arrangements for anything like that, but, erm, we’re talking about it. Aren’t we, Crowley?”

“Sure,” said Crowley. Aziraphale poked him under the table. “Yeah, I mean, yes! We’ve been talking about it. We’re just stuck on who’d move out of his flat and who wouldn’t. My plants like a lot of space, you know how it is.”

“Well, if you’re open to it, I would suggest moving in,” Madame Tracy said. “It’s wonderful to have someone else beside you when you wake up, it really is.” 

Crowley shrugged. “Aziraphale doesn’t sleep much,” he said.

“Oh, yes, that’s right. The bit with…” She fluttered her hands in the air in a fairly adorable approximation of wings, although of course the size was wrong. “Shadwell, sweetheart, I’m going to steal that now.” She stabbed his piece of crepe cake with her fork and stuck her stolen bit in her mouth over his protests. “The privileges of marriages. You two will learn all about that.”

“Mmm,” said Crowley, and squirmed like his skin was too small for him. “Aziraphale, I’m gonna go and…I just need some me time. Do you want to…?”

“Husband time?” Aziraphale guessed, and Crowley nodded. “Er. I don’t know if it would be polite for me to…”

Madame Tracy shook her head. “I’ve got my hands full with this one,” she said, and put her head on Shadwell’s shoulder. He laid his cheek awkwardly on her temple, but did seem to enjoy the touch. “Have your husband time.”

Crowley got up without another word and walked to the nearest little copse of trees. Aziraphale followed; the urgency was apparent in Crowley’s walk. He’d known him long enough to figure that one out, at least. “All right, Crowley,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, “what on _Earth_ is the matter? We were having a perfectly lovely conversation.”

“It’s not that,” said Crowley. He linked his hands behind his back and started to pace in fluid strides. “I don’t mind talking to people. We just didn’t have a cohesive story to tell them.”

“We don’t have…what?” Aziraphale said slowly. “I’m sorry?”

He feared a sulk, but Crowley spoke after only a few seconds’ pause. “We didn’t coordinate our stories,” he said. “Probably my fault – I should’ve thought of it. Every couple has their little facts about each other, don’t they? Trivial stuff, maybe a meet-cute. We’ve spent time with each other, but we don’t have that, and if we want to present ourselves as a real couple…” He shrugged.

“That’s…that’s a good point,” said Aziraphale. “I have to admit, when Sergeant Shadwell asked how we met, it caught me rather on the back foot.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Crowley ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up. “Look, angel. I don’t want to make you leave earlier than you want, if you’re having a good time…just…do you want to come to my place after? We can talk out some coordinating story details. I’ll provide some alcohol if you want.”

Crowley’s reticence was strangely touching. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he wanted to dwell on the reasons why; he’d spent years upon years _not_ dwelling, and he didn’t want to open Pandora’s box. Or was it a can of worms these days? 

“The alcohol is optional,” he said, “but I’d be happy to come to yours. Shall we leave together when we’re ready?”

“I, uh – together?” The apple of Crowley’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Um, _hng_ , sure. Yeah. I’ll give you a ride, uh, in the Bentley. Back to my flat, because I was your ride here. If you want.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Are you quite sure you’re all right, Crowley?” He sounded rather like the aptly-named Captain Obvious, or perhaps someone having an apoplexy.

“Never better.” Crowley cleared his throat with a disgusting gargling sound that Aziraphale was sure was intentional. “So, er. Let me know when you’re ready to go, and we can head out. I’ll be around.”

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s elbow. “Thank you very much for your patience, my dear.” Crowley didn’t pull away, and a thrill ran through Aziraphale, settling as warmth in his belly. “I’ll find you when I’m through.”

Crowley nodded, brusque but not unkind. “I’ll go wander,” he said.

“I’ll do the same,” Aziraphale answered, and headed back towards the food table. The crowd there had thinned, and he could see even from afar that there were plenty of miniature meatballs left. The mere thought of the rich tomato sauce they’d been tossed in made his mouth water.

As he left the table with another plate, Adam Young and his friends accosted him, all carrying plates with far too much dessert for growing children. Well, he supposed it _was_ a special occasion. “Hullo,” said Adam. “Where’s Mr. Crowley?”

“He’s got the coolest sunglasses,” said the only girl of the group, a bold thing wearing equally bold red dungarees. Aziraphale remembered what she had done to War, and decided at once that he liked her. “I want to ask where he got ‘em. Mum and Dad and my sister’d have heart attacks if I came home wearing a pair, Wensleydale said so, but I want some.”

“Wensleydale doesn’t know _everything_ ,” Adam said dismissively, much to the vocal displeasure of the small boy in spectacles. “Mum says it’s eating too many kippers that gives you heart attacks. Dad’s got hyper-something, that’s why he can’t have them anymore. Have you seen Mr. Crowley?”

Aziraphale smiled, not quite sure which question or issue to address first. “Hello,” he said, a greeting mumbled back at him by all four children. “Mr. Cr…er, Crowley is around here somewhere. I saw him only a moment ago. You might go look and see if he’s lurking in the trees.” He tapped his chin and addressed the tallest of the group, a chocolate-smeared child who looked as happy with his situation as a pig in a nice, cool mud bath. “You’ve got food on your face, dear boy,” he said in a lower tone. “Just here.”

“I’ve always got it,” said the boy. “Thanks anyway. We should go find him.”

“Are you and Mr. Crowley really married now?” the girl asked. “Anathema said you are, because there was a mix-up. What kind of mix-up gets you married?”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks color. “A – a rather unusual one, er. What’s your name?”

“Pepper,” she said, with a look that just _dared_ him to ask for more details.

“Pepper, then. Yes, we’re married. And it was a very special mistake that won’t be happening again.”

Pepper looked rather skeptical, but declined to comment further, much to Aziraphale’s relief. She seemed to have as strong a personality as the erstwhile Antichrist, and the other children would likely follow her lead, no matter the line of thought she decided to pursue. “We’ll go try to find him in the trees, then,” she said. “Cheers. Hope you’re liking all the cake. I’m going to eat so much, I’ll feel sick.”

“Jolly good,” said Aziraphale. “If it’s a treat, that’s all right. Have a good day.” He waved, and the children trooped off.

After another pleasant hour of socializing, he found Crowley near the buffet table when he went to grab a last cake pop to nosh on. “Are you ready to leave, then?” he asked, and Crowley nodded. “Did the children ever manage to find you?”

“Yup. They wanted to know about my glasses.” Crowley smiled. “I told ‘em, of course. Always up for pissing off some parents. Ready to go?”

“Yes. Could I trouble you for –“

“ – a ride? ‘Course, angel. Come on, I’m parked over there. Got the best space in the lot. Follow me.”

Aziraphale did, and while he tried his best not to look at Crowley’s bum, he was sure he failed. At least Crowley’s usual method of driving put all thoughts of derrieres out of his head, thank goodness. He was sure he was white as a sheet from fright by the time they got back to Crowley’s flat.

“C’mon up,” Crowley said, beckoning Aziraphale – unnecessarily, of course. Aziraphale would have followed him anyway. “You can stay as long as you want. I haven’t got anything else going on. Er, not that that would matter. I could cancel if I did.” The back of his neck, which Aziraphale could see as Crowley faced away from him, was slowly turning bright red. “Just…just come with me before I make an arse of myself again.”

Aziraphale kept from giggling with some difficulty. “All right, my dear.”

Crowley took them up and sat gracelessly on the sofa when they reached the living room. “All right,” he said, “so, coordinating stories. I – shit, I’ve got to take care of my plants. It’s time to mist them.” He got to his feet, all long limbs and nervous energy. “Do you mind if I…”

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale said. “I wouldn’t mind helping, in fact. Let’s give your plants a bit of love.” He started off towards the plant room and heard Crowley fall in behind him.

Crowley snorted. “Love,” he repeated. “They don’t need love, they need _discipline_.” He paused as Aziraphale led them forward. “You know your way around, angel.”

“I’ve been here before,” Aziraphale said. “Not just this month, I mean – I’ve been here for tea and rendezvous and such. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

“No, no, I haven’t,” Crowley said. “I just…it’s different, seeing that kind of…familiarity in person.” He grabbed the plant mister from a shelf and gave it a few experimental sprays into the air. “Good, it’s still full. You better not empty on me.” He shook a finger at the plant mister. “We were on coordinating stories, weren’t we? Yeah.” He sprayed his largest snake plant. “Apart from how we met, what do you think we need to come up with? I think we need to learn all the couple stuff about each other. Favorite colors and that.”

“Favorite colors,” Aziraphale repeated, and took the mister from Crowley to spray a beautiful flowering plant he couldn’t name. “My, aren’t you beautiful? Don’t you hiss at me,” he said as Crowley made his displeasure at the pleasantries known. “They deserve a bit of love. My favorite color…hmmm.” He looked around at the vegetation. “Green, I think. It was one of the first colors I saw on Earth.”

Crowley made a noncommittal grunt. “Makes sense,” he finally said. “The Garden, I suppose.” He took the mister back and went to another plant. “You don’t have to do this, angel.”

Aziraphale started, thinking for a second that he meant the conversation, before realizing that Crowley meant he didn’t have to mist the plants. “I want to,” he said. “Just bring me that sprayer when you’ve had enough of it, hm? Now, what’s _your_ favorite color, if we’re asking?”

Crowley let the mister hang from his fingers and scratched the back of his neck with his other hand. “Um,” he said, not meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, “I don’t think I ever really thought about it.”

“Now I know that’s a fib,” Aziraphale said. “You don’t get squirmy like that unless you’re trying to keep something from me.” Like just after the beginning, when he said he didn’t mind if Aziraphale took the last fig of the season from the tree. Like a thousand years after that, when he said he was going to avoid the Ark. Like the fourteenth century, when he – “Out of curiosity, why _do_ you hate the fourteenth century? I only saw you sporadically then.”

“Oh. I really never told you?” Crowley blinked at him, surprised. “I guess I should. Wait, I think…1348. You were in…”

“…Constantinople,” Aziraphale finished for him. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the smells and sounds of those haunted years. The screams of those he couldn’t heal, the cries of those who healed or stayed healthy and found the world changed around them. “It was the Plague, wasn’t it? How did I never know?”

Crowley paused. “I was a doctor,” he said, “or at least, I pretended I was. London was a hellhole. I did what I could, but everyone…” He shook his head. “They’d call it sepsis now, at least have a prayer of treating it. Back then, if you got to the point where you had the…had the _everything_ , you were practically dead already. Told Hell I was spreading it, and for all I know, I was right. So many people, and I walked among so many sick –“

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He wanted to pat Crowley’s hand, or maybe sweep him into a hug, but settled for gently touching his back. “You didn’t spread it. The fleas did. London had no proper sanitation then, and everything was unclean – you did so much good for the people you treated, I know you did. You soothed them, didn’t you? Even the ones who were dying?”

A nod. “I tried.”

“Then you did all that you could,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s shoulders slumped; he wasn’t sure whether it was in relief or resignation. “You did more than anyone else would have. I’m sure you healed a few.”

Crowley sighed, and for a long moment, the only sound in the plant room was the faint rustling of the leaves. “What I really hated,” he said, “almost more than that, is what happened after.”

“Oh?”

“Think, angel,” Crowley said. “Think about who they all blamed.”

“…oh.” Aziraphale’s heart squeezed in his chest. “Yes. Yes, I remember. I – I see how you would hate that, too.”

Crowley cleared his throat and made a noise that might have been a sniff. Aziraphale didn’t want to embarrass him and check. “Enough about my history,” he said. “I need to know more about yours. We spent a lot of time apart. Uh, do you have any quirks a husband would know about? Weird collections?”

“I can answer that,” said Aziraphale, grateful to be on semi-solid ground again. “I collect a few things. I’ve a lovely collection of collectible silver spoons, and – do bow ties count as a collection? I have a fair few of them. Although I don’t know if it counts, if I mostly wear this one.” He ran a finger along his tartan tie. “And…what else? Ooh, my collection of Regency silver snuffboxes! Have I ever told you about those?”

Crowley gave him a look edging from ‘that’s funny’ into ‘that’s hilarious.’ “No, you never told me that. Snuffboxes? Do you have a snuff habit?”

“Oh, no, not anymore. I couldn’t bear the stains. I keep them because they’re beautiful,” said Aziraphale. “I like beautiful things.” _There’s one right in front of me,_ he thought; the sun painted the exposed strands of Crowley’s hair red-gold against the normal auburn, and the vivid yellow of his eyes set off the sudden flush crawling across his cheeks. “Are you all right?”

“What’re you staring at me for, angel?” Crowley asked.

With some difficulty, Aziraphale managed to tear his eyes away. “No reason,” he said. “Shall we go on?”

It didn’t take long for Crowley to water the plants to his satisfaction (and to threaten a fair few of them, albeit more gently than Aziraphale suspected he usually did), but their chat lasted far longer, to his surprise. Crowley took them back into the living room and made tea with Aziraphale even having to ask.

“You _gavotted_ in that club? Really? I knew you knew how to do it, but I guess I never put together…wow.”

As the sun set, Aziraphale’s stomach growled, and Crowley offered to pay for takeaway, anything he wanted. When the food came, Aziraphale was surprised to see him dig in, too. Perhaps talking gave him an appetite.

“A scribe? You’re clever enough I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. You must have gotten up to all sorts of mischief in the Hanging Gardens, my dear.”

The night wore on. Bellies full, they both moved towards the center of the couch as if pulled by magnets, and Crowley opened a bottle of wine that Aziraphale miracled over from his shop.

“Blue,” he said suddenly as Aziraphale lifted his glass. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

Crowley took a sip of wine and looked at Aziraphale with those keen eyes. “My favorite color,” he said. “Not just any blue. Dark blue, sort of grayish. Hazel-y.”

“Hazel?” Aziraphale echoed. “That’s an eye color.”

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “Your eye color.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and felt his face surge with heat.

* * *

[1] Adam swore up and down that he had nothing to do with it, and given that he was cleaning up after Dog when he said so, Aziraphale was inclined to believe him.

[2] Aziraphale had been present for the choosing of said suit, and had been the one to talk Newt out of red and green for the jacket. “It’s not Christmas,” he said, and Newt had acquiesced to his far superior fashion sense, although he’d resisted Aziraphale’s suggestion of a tartan jabot.

[3] Shadwell’s thoughts on homosexuality were approximately the same as Creed Bratton’s.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing can be kept from Heaven and Hell forever, as Aziraphale and Crowley find out. It’s lucky for them that they have a few tricks up their collective sleeve.

The confrontation should have been much less of a surprise than it was, but in his defense, Aziraphale thought that _anyone_ would have been too distracted by a patch of beautiful purple flowers to notice the growing glow behind them. He had found the temporarily-abandoned construction site on a walk the previous day, and his first glimpse of the flowers had made him resolve that he absolutely had to bring Crowley by. While Aziraphale knew relatively little about flowers for someone his age, he’d thought that perhaps Crowley would be able to identify them. Perhaps he’d even take them home, and would thank Aziraphale for the addition to his collection!

He hadn’t expected a sudden spell of rain, but not even he could control the weather.

“Look, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pointing to the nearest flower. “Could you tell me what that is, do you think?”

Crowley laughed. “That? That’s a _cornflower_ , angel. Honestly, you’ve been living in England this long and you can’t recognize a cornflower? What kind of angel are you?”

“They’re not exactly my specialty,” Aziraphale huffed, “and if you _remember_ , plants tend to change into rather different forms over the years. With all my stints at various indoor places, I might be forgiven for not recognizing every variant.” He wrapped his arms around himself. The summer rain was warm, but the raindrops quickly cooled as they ran down his shirt collar. Why hadn’t he brought an umbrella?

“Might be forgiven,” said Crowley, his tone lightly mocking. “It’s a good thing I –“ He paused. “A good thing I know how to put up with you, angel. Not everyone would. Who drags someone out to a construction site in the rain and doesn’t even know what they’re showing – is that _Shadwell?_ ” He pointed to a corner of the site. “He’s skulking like a demon!”

Aziraphale did a double take and blinked. “Yes, I believe that is!” he said. “Is he picking up a brick? I think he is!”

“Let’s hope he’s not gonna throw it at anyone[1],” Crowley muttered, and waved at Shadwell, who looked up and then went back to his business with a tight nod.

“I don’t think he will,” Aziraphale said. Shadwell was certainly _strange_ , but even though he threatened anything that moved, Aziraphale had only ever seen him lift a finger to defend those he cared about, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “Now, I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one afternoon.”

“You haven’t _embarrassed_ yourself, angel,” Crowley said. “Did I say you shouldn’t have brought me out here? I think it’s cute.” He stopped mid-stride, almost comically fast, and Aziraphale saw his cheeks turn pink. “Er. That you didn’t know what a cornflower was. Doesn’t mean I’ll mock you about it, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t worried.” He’d been referred to as ‘cute’ before, but it was a far nicer word to hear when coming from Crowley than, say, someone trying to butter him up because they wanted to buy a book. “I only thought –“

“ _PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE.”_

Aziraphale jumped in place and clapped his hands over his ears. He knew that voice, that authoritative tone, so loud that it hurt. “Oh, no,” he whispered, and turned, squinting into the almost blinding glow.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Crowley said next to him, his tone raw with fear. “Angel –“

“Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, marshaling all his courage, “is that you? I didn’t know you were coming.” The last time Gabriel had seen what he thought was Aziraphale, he’d been greeted with staid politeness, so that was what Aziraphale would provide now. “If you could, ah, turn down the lights, I would very much appreciate it.”

“Angel,” said Crowley softly, “if Heaven’s here, then that means…”

A thunderclap sounded as if to dramatically underscore his words[2], and a pillar of red fire appeared, the familiar fly-topped figure of Beelzebub barely visible amongst the swirls of flame. “ _DEMON CROWLEY_ ,” Beelzebub bellowed, “ _PRESENT YOURSELF._ ”

The air rippled. Aziraphale realized with dread that this was the calling card of a true miracle, a _mass_ miracle, before the construction site was suddenly ringed by a circle of Heaven’s and Hell’s agents. Not as many as at the thwarted Apocalypse, thank goodness – they surely didn’t merit all that – but enough that his heart stuttered in his chest. And they were moving closer. “Crowley,” he said through his teeth as he plastered on a smile, “do you have any idea what this is about?”

Crowley made a sick gulping sound. “Have they found out about the…?”

Aziraphale could think of two things that the Home Offices might have found out, and neither portended well for them. “Gabriel,” he said, “I’m more than willing to discuss whatever has brought you and Lord Beelzebub here. And the, ah, forces, of course.”

The lights dimmed, thank goodness, and the fires receded back into the sky and the earth, respectively. Aziraphale hoped to Someone that the humans would chalk it up to a consequence of the rain, something like ball lightning. Gabriel stepped forward from a spot of miraculously unscorched earth and looked at Aziraphale with the same expression he’d worn when half the office declined to show up to his bimillennium celebration extravaganza.[3]

“Aziraphale,” he said, “we’re all very disappointed in you.”

A huge drop of rain plopped down into Aziraphale’s collar, and he shivered. “Er, are you? So terribly sorry. Why?”

Gabriel set his mouth in a hard line. “You seek to plot against Heaven!”

“Oh? Do I?”

“Yes!” Gabriel pointed theatrically at Crowley, who mouthed _me?_ and patted his chest. “You married _him_ , which shows that you have nefarious plans against Heaven. He may have nefarious plots against Hell, but that’s to be expected from a demon.” He crossed his arms.

“Let’s not get too hasty,” said Beelzebub. “We have no proof that thezzzze two are planning to overthrow us. Previous actionzzz indicate that they wish to anger us with their behavior. They’re acting out, nothing more.”

Crowley cleared his throat loudly. “Have you considered that maybe we just got married because we want to?”

“Shut your traitor mouth, Crowley,” Beelzebub snapped, a sound like a thousand buzzing flies that made Aziraphale want to slap his hands over his ears. “ _You_ are on thin ice azzz it izzzz. We have chosen not to attack you out of the goodness of our heartzzzz. This farce of a marriage will end, or else.”

Gabriel clapped his hands together in a motion that reminded Aziraphale of Thaddeus Dowling during one of his short-lived spurts of team encouragement among the house staff. “That’s right! It _is_ a farce of a marriage. And it _had_ better end. We still have R&D working on why you’re immune to the usual methods of punishment, but we’ll find out, and when we do, there will be consequences. _Bad_ consequences.”

Beelzebub snapped their fingers, and their usual Earthly hat was replaced with their nauseating Hellish fly. Aziraphale’s stomach lurched, and Crowley looked just as disgusted. “That’s right. There are consequencezzz for constantly defying your bossezzzzz. We shall not hold with this so-called marriage!”

 _Bosses._ A light went on in Aziraphale’s head. If they were going to be explicit about the hierarchy, then he could spin it to his advantage – they did, after all, think he was at least somewhat powerful. “Technically,” he said, “you’re not my boss.”

Gabriel stared at him. “What?”

“The angel hierarchies are unclear even among scholars,” said Aziraphale, feeling much braver, especially when he saw Crowley’s wide eyes. He didn’t know what happened to his sunglasses, but Crowley’s look – was that admiration? – made him feel bolder, too, like he could take on anything. “In many of them, Principalities rank above Archangels. So.”

A shudder of surprise ran through the assembled supernatural beings, and Beelzebub looked at Gabriel with raised eyebrows. Gabriel, for his part, looked rather like Aziraphale had struck him between the legs – if he kept anything there, at least. “Those classifications aren’t universal,” he said.

“And where are the true higher-ups, then?” Aziraphale went on. “The seraphim, the cherubim, the seal-holders? For that matter, where’s Raphael?” He hadn’t seen him in millennia, and although Sandalphon likely sufficed for the enforcing bit, surely the entire Archangelic cohort was necessary for the purpose of disciplining another angel.

Gabriel scoffed. “Probably off in the old Garden, getting high,” he said, “like always. I don’t see any of those so-called higher-ups here, so obviously they’ve left this thorny job to me.” He straightened himself to his full height and stared down his aristocratic nose. “As for you outranking me, Sam Uley was the pack alpha in the Twilight series, even though Jacob Black had the alpha bloodline.” He grinned, looking far prouder of himself than the analogy warranted. “Even the _humans_ know the way things should be done!”

“ _Ew_!” said Crowley. “You’ve actually read Twilight?”

“And seen all the movies,” said Gabriel, “but –“

“Don’t you remember the end of that storyline, you knob?” Crowley interrupted. “Jacob realized his potential and told Sam to go sit on a railroad spike, and then he left to go kick off a different questionable storyline.”

Gabriel gaped at him.

“Who do you think sent that disgusting dream into the author’s head?” Crowley said. “Achieved so, _so_ much in terms of low-level sin. Anyway…”

A bolt of lightning colored the sky white, obscuring everything for a moment and leaving Aziraphale blinking. Seconds later, a thunderclap rocked the world. In the distance, Shadwell ducked behind a half-renovated building with his fists over his ears. “We don’t have time for this,” said Beelzebub. “I’ll handle my enforcerzzzz. Gabriel, handle yourzzzz. It’s time we took care of this once and for all.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale was off his feet, knocked backwards into the waiting grasp of several angels who held him so tightly that he could barely struggle. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop, this isn’t you! This isn’t _Heaven!_ ” He surged forward and almost gagged with the force employed in yanking him back. “Crowley – _Crowley!_ Where are you?” They weren’t playing around this time. He couldn’t kick, couldn’t even move his feet.

“This will be far easier for you if you stop struggling, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel in his ‘I’m disappointed in you for your own good’ voice. “We don’t want to hurt you. We don’t want to waste our time figuring out ways we _can_ hurt you, to be frank.” His wings were out, and Aziraphale tried in vain to look over the flapping dove-gray feathers that kept him from Crowley. “Won’t it be nice to come back and make things right with the Heavenly Host?”

Aziraphale heard a yelp of pain from behind Gabriel, _Crowley’s_ yelp of pain, and his mind was made up. “I serve Her,” he snarled in a voice he could barely believe was coming out of his mouth, “not you! Unhand him –“

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted. “Aziraphale, are you all right?”

Gabriel strode forward and grabbed a handful of Aziraphale’s shirt, pulling it up until they were almost face to face. “Obedience is part of serving Her,” he said, his face like stone and his lips colorless, “and it’s time you knew that.”

“Aziraphale! _Aziraphale!_ ” Power charged the air around them, a familiar thickening that was neither Heavenly nor fully Hellish. “Gabriel! Archangel Gabriel, I charge you – _get your stinkin’ hands off my husband, you damn dirty angel!_ ”

Gabriel froze. Over his shoulder, Aziraphale finally caught a glimpse of Crowley far behind him, trying in vain to kick at the demons restraining him, even as one slapped a hand over his mouth. _Get your stinkin’ hands off my husband. Husband. Husband._ Crowley’s eyes were wide with fear and concern, the same emotions that Aziraphale had seen in 1066 at the battlefield, Crowley in the raiment of the Normans and him in that of the English. 1862, at the park. 1967, when not even the threat of ‘too fast’ stymied him.

The beginning of the world, on the wall. _You what?_

The end, or nearly so. _I lost my best friend._

But he wasn’t only Crowley’s best friend, was he? He was all that and more.

Aziraphale _understood_ now.

And just like that, the world was in motion again.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Gabriel said, but he sounded far less sure of himself than he had just a few seconds ago. Almost…trembly. “Beelzebub!” he called across the circle. “Tell your lackey that he can’t talk to me like that. I’m above him!”

“Don’t tell me what to do, wank-wingzzz,” said Beelzebub. It seemed to be an all-purpose Hellish insult, and Aziraphale repressed the ridiculous urge to laugh at hearing it again. “Crowley, don’t speak to Archangelzzzz like that. They come crying to me like little bastardzzzz when you do.”

Aziraphale bit the insides of his cheeks so hard against the coming laugh that tears of pain and mirth spilled out of his eyes, but it was no use. He laughed anyway, doubling over in his captors’ grasp until his chest heaved and his belly hurt. “What’s so funny?” Gabriel demanded.

“You’re…you’re so powerful,” Aziraphale gasped between spasms of laughter, feeling giddy and as fizzy as a shaken bottle of soda, “but a few words undo you?”

“I’m not undone!” said Gabriel. “I’m demanding the respect I deserve, especially since you’re a little traitor who’s plotting against Heaven.”

“I thought we established that they were _both_ plotting,” Sandalphon put in from the sidelines. Both Michael and Uriel were quiet, and Aziraphale didn’t blame them; this was turning into, as Crowley liked to say, a bit of a shitshow.

“We’re neither of us plotting!” said Crowley, looking and sounding well beyond exasperated. “What don’t the lot of you understand about this? We got married because…” He paused and licked his lips, glancing at Aziraphale. “We got married because we like each other!”

Sounds of surprise and disgust came from all around them. Aziraphale felt his jaw tighten. What right did any of them have to judge him and Crowley? What right did either side have to send them to Earth, keep them there for thousands of years to grow old with the world, and then decide that their exertions on behalf of God’s creations were insufficient? 

“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly why we got married.”

If Crowley’s announcement had raised eyebrows, then this one was like a lightning bolt to the center of the circle. Aziraphale heard cries of denial mingle with demonic hissing, and he had a wild thought that, for perhaps the second time in the history of the universe, Heaven and Hell were in complete agreement with each other. The first time had come not even a year before, of course – funny that he and Crowley had been involved in both.

He only hoped that they would both remain alive and kicking, just in case a third time came.

“If…if that’zzzz not the case,” said Beelzebub, sounding more taken aback than Aziraphale had ever heard from them, “then how did you survive the holy water? How did he survive the hellfire? Only spite of such magnitude –“

“You pricks would know,” Crowley snapped, “if you ever took the time to get your heads out of your own arses and think about something once in a while. _Remember_ something every once in a while! Don’t you ever think?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what Crowley thought they were all supposed to remember, or if not knowing meant that _his_ head was firmly planted in his own bum, but he didn’t like the way the demons on either side of Crowley were looking at him. Nor did he like the scent of the lightning crackling in the distance. Cold wind blew in his face as he cast around for something, _anything,_ to say. 

“She approves!” he blurted out. “She obviously approves! Isn’t it obvious? She’s not smitten – smoten – smited? Yes, _smited_ either of us down yet!”

“That’s impossible!” shouted Michael, her voice nearly drowned out by the rising wind and rain. From the sound of it, everyone agreed with her. “What proof does a Principality like you have for a claim like that?”

“Proof?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley and watched the color drain from Crowley’s face. Bugger all, he had to come up with something fast. “Er – no news is good news! If she’s not making her anger known, then –“

“Look up,” Crowley croaked. “All you idiots look _up_.”

The rain was gone. The clouds were clearing. Above Aziraphale’s head, arcing as far as he could see, a rainbow glimmered faintly but distinctly in the hazy light. He blinked, and the image remained; he rubbed his eyes, and nothing happened. “Dear God,” he said, not sure if it was an expletive or a plea. “That’s…”

“She couldn’t have,” Gabriel said.

“She wouldn’t give a damn,” said Uriel.

“She doesn’t care,” Crowley breathed. He wore an expression of exultation, wild with joy. “The first time she did it – don’t you lot remember? She wouldn’t destroy anything again. She doesn’t care if Aziraphale and I got married, because it doesn’t change a blessed thing in the world.” His mouth hung open for a moment. “Don’t you see? She won’t destroy us because we’re not important enough to matter! None of us are!” His expression turned feral, triumphant. “It’s humans who are the important ones, and we’re going to keep living among them, and we’re _free_.”

Hope rose in Aziraphale’s heart. “Free?” he echoed. As if the word were a key, the angels on either side of him loosened their hold, and he ran across the circle of entities to where the same thing was happening to Crowley. “Crowley, are you all right?” he said, and took Crowley’s hands as he checked him over. No injuries, at least none that he could see. “Did they hurt you?” 

_Crowley loves me,_ he thought. _Crowley loves me enough to call me his husband._ It was one thing to say it in front of humans, even those he called his friends; these were people who could vaporize them both, if they thought hard enough about how to do it.

“No,” said Crowley, vigorously shaking his head. “No, I’m okay? How about you? Did those shitheads get you anywhere?”

“No!” Crowley winced, and Aziraphale realized that he was holding his hands far too tightly. “Oh – sorry, my dear. I’m…”

“You’re calling him _dear?_ ” Gabriel demanded.

Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hand a light squeeze, and they turned as one to face the angels and demons before them. “Yes,” he said. _She_ at least cared enough that they wouldn’t be destroyed; why couldn’t he be honest? “I’ve been doing so for a while.”

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose, and Beelzebub crossed their arms. Michael and Uriel looked at each other. From what Aziraphale could see, the rest of the supernatural entities were on ground just about as shaky, mentally speaking. 

“Fine,” said Gabriel. “You know what? Fine. Whatever.” He looked at Beelzebub. “How have they not been cast out already?”

“I have no idea,” Beelzebub said. “I wouldn’t try to push it, if I were you.” They snapped their fingers, and the assembled demons came to attention. Gabriel waved his arm, and the angels did the same.[4]

With a glimmer of light, the unwelcome visitors to the construction site faded from view, and Aziraphale took Crowley in his arms, pressing his face to his shoulder to keep back his tears.

(Behind the building, Shadwell gaped at his outstretched trusty finger – and passed out.)

* * *

Aziraphale miracled them to the bookshop and Crowley willingly followed; he felt zombified enough as it was, without having to remember the way to his flat or try a miracle. He sat down on the couch in the back room when Aziraphale indicated he should, and gratefully took the cup of tea that Aziraphale handed him. It wasn’t until Aziraphale sat down with his own mug that either of them said a word. 

“How long?” Aziraphale asked.

“Sorry?” Crowley said.

“How long.” Aziraphale waved a hand. “How long have you felt like – er, felt like this?”

“Ages,” Crowley told him. It felt so good to finally get the words out after all this time, like he was opening something blocked inside him. Maybe it was his heart. “Not since the beginning, but…close. “How about you? How long have you…?” The words stuttered on his lips. He couldn’t remember feeling so shy around Aziraphale for nearly six thousand years.

Aziraphale reached into the space between them, which was suddenly far smaller than it had been, and took his hand across the coffee table. “At least since 1941,” he said. “Likely earlier, but I was an idiot.” Crowley started to protest, and Aziraphale held up a hand. “Don’t try to reassure me, my dear. I know what I am.”

“Not an idiot,” Crowley said. “An angel.” 

Why did space have to exist? Why couldn’t he be part of Aziraphale down to the last molecule, mingled with him in heart and soul and whatever other sappy bullshit he could come up with? 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

Aziraphale sighed. “There were a number of reasons,” he said, “and I think we both know what they are.”

Crowley closed his eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

“Crowley.” The warmth of Aziraphale’s tone, coaxing rather than demanding, made him open his eyes again. “Can you tell me how you got the idea to switch bodies?”

“…what?” That was random.

“Well,” said Aziraphale with a hint of mirth, “you did rather imply that anyone who _didn’t_ know had their head up their bottom, and I try not to leave mine there.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “Angel, you know I didn’t mean you.”

“Humor me.”

Crowley held out his other hand, and Aziraphale took it. Squeezing both of Aziraphale’s hands, he felt stronger somehow. “Do you remember how it was in Heaven? Back before…what happened to me and the others?” Aziraphale nodded slowly. “It used to be…better.” They were all so strangely semi-corporeal, halfway to the invention of bodies, that they could pour into each other like water mixing in a glass, sharing everything. “We shared essences. Sort of. Fuck, I can’t really explain it.”

“Maybe you can’t,” said Aziraphale, “but I know what you mean – my darling.” Crowley looked at him in surprise, and Aziraphale blushed, actually _blushed_. “Is it all right for me to say that?”

“Y-yeah. Um, _hg_ , I can’t…sorry, my words aren’t…I can’t really think so well.” Crowley hit himself on the side of the head with his palm and forced a laugh. _Darling._ “I said the bit about them being stupid because, uh. Because they never think back to when things were more united. They’ll never figure it out as long as they keep being themselves.”

Aziraphale rose from the couch in a single fluid motion and, miracle of miracles, sat down next to Crowley. He was so close that Crowley could feel the heat of his body through scant centimeters of air and millimeters of fabric. “You clever, _brilliant_ thing,” he said. “Good Lord, Crowley, how would you ever – of course they wouldn’t think about it!” He grabbed Crowley in an embrace that was just right: not too firm, not too soft, and just warm enough. Crowley felt like the world’s happiest Goldilocks.

“Don’t let go,” he said as Aziraphale shifted. “I want to hold you. Please, angel.” He hadn’t gone six thousand years without touching Aziraphale like he wanted to be satisfied with a perfunctory hug. Not even a human would be able to tolerate that.

“I don’t very much fancy the idea of letting go of you, either,” Aziraphale said into his neck, breath warm against him. Crowley shivered, and felt himself erupt in goosebumps. “Even by our reckoning, I’ve wanted to do this for _far_ too long.”

Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s plump back and began to rub in circles. Aziraphale had gone long enough without reapplying his cologne that the smell was faint, overshadowed by the smell of his warm skin and a hint of sweat. He flicked out his tongue and scented him, and Aziraphale shivered. “That okay, angel?”

“More than,” Aziraphale said, a sentence that only half made sense. Crowley didn’t care. A nuclear bomb could have gone off outside and he wouldn’t have cared about that, either. “Is that a kiss for you? Is it a…a snake thing?”

“Do you want it to be a kiss?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “I’d rather kiss you the traditional way first, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yeah?” Crowley hated to do it, but he pulled away nevertheless to look Aziraphale full in the face. “Time to be honest, angel. I need to hear it from you. Where do we go from here?”

Aziraphale looked down, seeming almost shy about it, before meeting Crowley’s eye. “If I may be so bold,” he said, “I think the first thing we ought to do is confirm that the proposed divorce isn’t going to happen.”

Crowley shook his head. “Never. Not divorcing you in a million years, angel – literally, if I have to specify. Do you think I’m about to let you go when we’ve just discovered…er, all this?”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Aziraphale. He brought a hand to Crowley’s waist and pulled him closer, shifting their positions until Crowley lay with his head against the couch arm and Aziraphale looming over him. “Might I kiss you now, my dear?”

“I’ll discorporate if you don’t,” Crowley told him.

“Good,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “I’m glad to hear it,” and his lips descended.

* * *

[1] That was not, in fact, Shadwell’s intention. His dubious success with the Thundergun the previous year had led him to choose a brick for Newt and Anathema’s wedding present, but as he was both too poor and too cheap to purchase one, lurking at construction sites for the proper projectile was his _modus operandi._

[2] Hell intended it that way. They hadn’t planned on the rain, either, but for them, this was a pleasant turn of events.

[3] Given that it functioned something like a Prayvaganza, everyone who had skipped the so-called party was exceptionally glad they’d done it.

[4] Shadwell chose this time to cock his finger for the sake of his friends; he felt he’d dawdled long enough, even if they were strange people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with it!
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr as godihatethisfreakingcat. Huevo, the artist responsible for these wonderful images, can be found at huevotm. Asideofourown, the beta-reader who made the fic what it is today, can be found by that name on Tumblr and AO3.


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